by  KATHLEEN  NORRIS 


1 


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NFW  FJ' 


Kathleen  Norris 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 


SIDNEY    LAID    HER    HAND    ON    HIS    SHOULDER,    AND   RAISED    HER    FACE 
HONESTLY  FOR  HIS   FIRST   KISS.  (Seepage  S95) 


THE 
RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 


BY 

KATHLEEN  NORRIS 

AUTHOR  OF  "MOTHER" 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

LUCIUS  HENRY  HITCHCOCK 


GROSSET  &   DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEWYORK 


Copyright,  IQI2,  by 
DOUBLEDAY,  PaGE  &  CoMPANY 

All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of 

translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


ocimiiz^'^ 


TO  KATHLEEN  MARY  THOMPSON 

Lover  of  books,  who  never  fails  to  find 

Some  good  in  every  book,  your  namesake  sends 

This  book  to  you,  knowing  you  always  kind 
To  small  things,  timid  and  in  need  of  friend*. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

CHAPTER  I 

"Annie,  what  are  you  doing?  Polishing  the 
ramekins?  Oh,  that's  right.  Did  the  extra 
ramekins  come  from  Mrs.  Brown?  Didn't! 
Then  as  soon  as  the  children  come  back  I'll 
send  for  them;  I  wish  you'd  remind  me.  Did 
Mrs.  Binney  come?  and  Lizzie?  Oh,  that's 
good.  Where  are  they?  Down  in  the  cellar! 
Oh,  did  the  extra  ice  come?  Will  you  find  out, 
Annie?  Those  can  wait.  If  it  didn't,  the 
mousse  is  ruined,  that's  all!  No,  wait,  Annie, 
I'll  go  out  and  see  Celia  myself." 

Little  Mrs.  George  Carew,  flushed  and  ex- 
cited, crossed  the  pantry  as  she  spoke,  and 
pushed  open  the  swinging  door  that  connected 
it  with  the  kitchen.    She  was  a  pretty  woman, 


2  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

even  now  when  her  hair,  already  dressed,  was 
hidden  under  snugly  pinned  veils  and  her 
trim  little  figure  lost  under  a  flying  kimono. 
Mrs.  Carew  was  expecting  the  twenty-eight 
members  of  the  Santa  Paloma  Bridge  Club  on 
this  particular  evening,  and  now,  at  three 
o'clock  on  a  beautiful  April  afternoon,  she 
was  almost  frantic  with  fatigue  and  nervousness. 
The  house  had  been  cleaned  thoroughly  the 
day  before,  rugs  shaken,  mirrors  polished, 
floors  oiled;  the  grand  piano  had  been  closed, 
and  pushed  against  the  wall;  the  reading- table 
had  been  cleared,  and  wheeled  out  under  the 
turn  of  the  stairway;  the  pretty  drawing-room 
and  square  big  entrance  hall  had  been  emptied 
to  make  room  for  the  seven  little  card-tables 
that  were  already  set  up,  and  for  the  twenty- 
eight  straight-back  chairs  that  Mrs.  Carew  had 
collected  from  the  dining-room,  the  bedrooms, 
the  halls,  and  even  the  nursery,  for  the  occasion. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  3 

All  this  had  been  done  the  day  before,  and  Mrs. 
Car^w,  awakening  early  in  the  morning  to 
uneasy  anticipations  of  a  full  day,  had  yet 
felt  that  the  main  work  of  preparation  was  out 
of  the  way. 

But  now,  in  mid-afternoon,  nothing  seemed 
done.  There  were  flowers  still  to  arrange; 
there  was  the  mild  punch  that  Santa  Paloma 
affected  at  card  parties  to  be  finished;  there  was 
candy  to  be  put  about  on  the  tables,  in  little 
silver  dishes;  and  new  packs  of  cards,  and 
pencils  and  score-cards  to  be  scattered  about. 

And  in  the  kitchen But  Mrs.  Carew's 

heart  failed  at  the  thought.  True,  her  own 
two  maids  were  being  helped  out  to-day  by 
Mrs.  Binney  from  the  village,  a  tower  of 
strength  in  an  emergency,  and  by  Lizzie  Binney, 
a  worthy  daughter  of  her  mother ;  but  there  had 
been  so  many  stupid  delays.  And  plates,  and 
glasses,  and  punch-cups,  and  silver,  and  napkins 


4  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

for  twenty-eight  meant  such  a  lot  of  counting 
and  sorting  and  polishing!  And  somehow 
George  and  the  children  must  have  dmne^,  and 
the  Binneys  and  Celia  and  Annie  must  eat,  too. 

"Well,"  thought  Mrs.  Carew,  with  a  desper- 
ate glance  at  the  kitchen  clock,  "it  will  all  be 
over  pretty  soon,  thank  goodness!" 

A  pleasant  stir  of  preparation  pervaded  the 
kitchen.  Mrs.  Binney,  enormous,  good-natured, 
capable,  was  opening  crabs  at  one  end  of  the 
table,  her  sleeves  rolled  up,  and  her  gingham 
dress,  in  the  last  stage  of  age  and  thinness, 
protected  by  a  new  stiff  white  apron;  Celia, 
Mrs.  Carew's  cook,  was  sitting  opposite  her, 
dismembering  two  cold  roasted  fowls;  Lizzie 
Binney,  as  trim  and  pretty  as  her  mother  was 
shapeless  and  plain,  was  filling  silver  bonbon- 
dishes  with  salted  nuts. 

"How  is  everything  going,  Celia?"  said 
Mrs.  Carew,  sampling  a  nut. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  5 

"Fine,"  said  Celia  placidly.  "He  didn't 
bring  but  two  bunches  of  suUery,  so  I  don't 
know  will  I  have  enough  for  the  salad.  They 
sent  the  cherries.  And  Mrs.  Binney  wants  you 
should  taste  the  punch." 

"It's  sweet  now,"  said  Mrs.  Binney,  as 
Mrs.  Carew  picked  up  the  big  mixing-spoon, 
"but  there's  the  ice  to  go  in." 

"DeHcious!  not  one  bit  too  sweet,"  Mrs. 
Carew  pronounced.  "You  know  that's  to  be 
passed  around  in  the  little  glasses,  Lizzie, 
while  we're  playing;  and  a  cherry  and  a  piece  of 
pineapple  in  every  glass.  Did  Annie  find  the 
doilies  for  the  big  trays?  Yes.  I  got  the  bowl 
down;  Annie's  going  to  wash  it.  Oh,  the  cakes 
came,  didn't  they?  That's  good.  And  the 
cream  for  coffee;  that  ought  to  go  right  on  ice. 
I'll  telephone  for  more  celery." 

"There's  some  of  these  napkins  so  mussed, 
laying  in  the  drawer,"  said  Lizzie,  "I  thought 


6  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

I'd  put  a  couple  of  irons  on  and  press  them 
out." 

"If  you  have  time,  I  wish  you  would,"  Mrs. 
Carew  said,  touching  the  frosted  top  of  an 
angel-cake  with  a  tentative  finger.  "I  may 
have  to  play  to-night,  Celia,"  she  went  on,  to 
her  own  cook,  "but  you  girls  can  manage 
everything,  can't  you?  Dinner  really  doesn't 
matter — scrambled  eggs  and  baked  potatoes, 
something  like  that,  and  you'll  have  to  serve  it 
on  the  side  porch." 

"Oh,  yes'm,  we'll  manage!"  Celia  assured  her 
confidently.  "We'll  clear  up  here  pretty  soon, 
and  then  there's  nothing  but  the  sandwiches  to 
do." 

Mrs.  Carew  went  on  her  way  comforted. 
Celia  was  not  a  fancy  cook,  she  reflected,  pass- 
ing through  the  darkened  dining-room,  where 
the  long  table  had  been  already  set  with  a  shin- 
ing cloth,  and  where  silver  and  glass  gleamed  in 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  7 

J 

the  darkness,  but  Celia  was  reliable.  And  for 
a  woman  with  three  children,  a  large  house,  and 
but  one  other  maid,  Celia  was  a  treasure. 

She  telephoned  the  grocer,  her  eyes  roving 
critically  over  the  hall  as  she  did  so.  The 
buttercups,  in  a  great  bowl  on  the  table,  were 
already  dropping  their  varnished  yellow  leaves; 
Annie  must  brush  those  up  the  very  last  thing. 

"So  far,  so  good!"  said  Mrs.  Carew,  straight- 
ening the  rug  at  the  door  with  a  small  heel  and 
dropping  wearily  into  a  porch  rocker.  "There 
must  be  one  thousand  things  I  ought  to  be 
doing,"  she  said,  resting  her  head  and  shut- 
ting her  eyes. 

It  was  a  warm,  delicious  afternoon.  The 
httle  California  town  lay  asleep  under  a  haze  of 
golden  sunshine.  The  Carews'  pretty  house, 
with  its  lawn  and  garden,  was  almost  the  last 
on  River  Street,  and  stood  on  the  slope  of  a  hill 
that    commanded    all    Santa    Paloma   Valley. 


8  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

Below  it,  the  wide  tree-shaded  street  descended 
between  other  unfenced  lawns  and  other  hand- 
some homes. 

This  was  the  aristocratic  part  of  the  town. 
The  Willard  Whites'  immense  colonial  mansion 
was  here;  and  the  Whites,  rich,  handsome, 
childless,  clever,  and  nearing  the  forties,  were 
quite  the  most  prominent  people  of  Santa 
Paloma.  The  Wayne  Adamses,  charming,  ex- 
travagant young  people,  lived  near;  and  the 
Parker  Lloyds,  who  were  suspected  of  hiding 
rather  serious  money  troubles  under  their  reck- 
less hospitality  and  unfailing  gaiety,  were  just 
across  the  street.  On  River  Street,  too,  lived 
dignified,  aristocratic  old  Mrs.  Apostleman  and 
nervous,  timid  Anne  Pratt  and  her  brother 
Walter,  whose  gloomy,  stately  old  mansion  was 
one  of  the  finest  in  town.  Up  at  the  end  of  the 
street  were  the  Carews,  and  the  shabby  com- 
fortable home  of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Brown,  and  the 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  9 

neglected  white  cottage  where  Barry  Valentine 
and  his  little  son  Billy  and  a  studious  young 
Japanese  servant  led  a  rather  shiftless  existence. 
And  although  there  were  other  pretty  streets  in 
town,  and  other  pleasant  well-to-do  women  who 
were  members  of  church  and  club,  River  Street 
was  unquestionably  the  street,  and  its  residents 
unquestionably  the  people  of  Santa  Paloma. 

Beyond  these  homes  lay  the  business  part  of 
the  town,  the  railway  station,  and  post-ofhce, 
the  library,  and  the  women's  clubhouse,  with 
its  red  geraniums,  red-tiled  roof,  and  plaster 
arches. 

And  beyond  again  were  blocks  of  business 
buildings,  handsome  and  modem,  with  metal- 
sheathed  elevators,  and  tiled  vestibules,  and 
heavy,  plate-glass  windows  on  the  street.  There 
was  a  drug  store  quite  modern  enough  to  be 
facing  upon  Forty-second  Street  and  Broad- 
way, instead  of  the  tree-shaded  peace  of  Santa 


10  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

Paloma's  main  street.  At  its  cool  and  glittering 
fountain  indeed,  a  hundred  drinks  could  be 
mixed  of  which  Broadway  never  even  heard. 
And  on  Broadway,  three  thousand  miles  away, 
the  women  who  shopped  were  buying  the  same 
boxed  powders,  the  same  bottled  toilet  waters, 
the  same  patented  soaps  and  brushes  and 
candies  that  were  to  be  found  here.  And  in  the 
immense  grocery  store  nearby  there  were 
beautifully  spacious  departments  worthy  of 
any  great  city,  devoted  to  rare  fruits,  and 
coffees  and  teas,  and  every  pickle  that  ever 
came  in  a  glass  bottle,  and  every  little  spiced 
fish  that  ever  came  in  a  gay  tin.  A  white-clad 
young  man  "demonstrated"  a  cake-mixer,  a 
blue-clad  young  woman  "demonstrated"  jelly- 
powders. 

Nearby  were  the  one  or  two  big  dry-goods 
stores,  with  lovely  gowns  in  their  windows, 
and  milliners'  shops,  with  French  hats  in  their 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  1 1 

smart  Paris  boxes — there  was  even  a  very  tiny, 
very  elegant  little  shop  where  pastes  and  pow- 
ders and  shampooing  were  the  attraction;  a 
shop  that  had  a  French  name  ''et  Cie^^  over 
the  door. 

In  short,  there  were  modern  women,  and  rich 
women,  in  Santa  Paloma,  as  these  things  un- 
mistakably indicated.  Where  sixty  years  ago 
there  had  been  but  a  lonely  outpost  on  a 
Spanish  sheep-ranch,  and  where  thirty  years 
after  that  there  was  only  a  "general  store"  at 
a  crossroads,  now  every  luxury  in  the  world 
might  be  had  for  the  asking. 

All  this  part  of  the  town  lay  northeast  of  the 
sleepy  httle  Lobos  River,  which  cut  Santa 
Paloma  in  two.  It  was  a  pretty  river,  a  boiling 
yellow  torrent  in  winter,  but  low  enough  in  the 
summer-time  for  the  children  to  wade  across 
the  shallows,  and  shaded  all  along  its  course  by 
overhanging   maples,   and   willows,   and   oak- 


12  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

trees,  and  an  undergrowth  of  wild  currant  and 
hazel  bushes  and  blackberry  vines.  Across  the 
river  was  Old  Paloma,  where  dust  from  the 
cannery  chimneys  and  soot  from  the  railway 
sheds  powdered  an  ugly  shabby  settlement  of 
shanties  and  cheap  lodging-houses.  Old  Paloma 
was  peppered  thick  with  saloons,  and  flavored 
by  them,  and  by  the  odor  of  frying  grease,  and 
by  an  ashy  waste  known  as  the  ''dump."  Over 
all  other  odors  lay  the  sweet,  cloying  smell  of 
crushed  grapes  from  the  winery  and  the  pungent 
odor  from  the  tannery  of  White  &  Company. 
The  men,  and  boys,  and  girls  of  the  settlement 
all  worked  in  one  or  another  of  these  places, 
and  the  women  gossiped  in  their  untidy  door- 
ways. 

Above  the  Carew  house  and  Doctor  Brown's, 
opposite,  River  Street  came  perforce  to  an  end, 
for  it  was  crossed  at  this  point  by  an  old- 
fashioned  wooden   fence   of   slender,   rounded 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  13 

pickets.  In  the  middle  of  the  fence  was  a  wide 
carriage  gate,  with  a  smaller  gate  for  foot 
passengers  at  each  side,  and  beyond  it  the 
shabby,  neglected  garden  and  the  tangle  of 
pepper,  and  eucalyptus,  and  weeping  willow 
trees  that  half  hid  the  old  Holly  mansion.  Once 
this  had  been  the  great  house  of  the  village,  but 
now  it  was  empty  and  forlorn.  Captain  Holly 
had  been  dead  for  five  or  six  years,  and  the  last 
of  the  sons  and  daughters  had  gone  away  into 
the  world.  The  house,  furnished  just  as  they 
had  left  it,  was  for  sale,  but  the  years  went  by, 
and  no  buyer  appeared;  and  meantime  the 
garden  flowers  ran  wild,  the  lawns  were  dry  and 
brown,  and  the  fence  was  smothered  in  coarse 
rose  vines  and  rampant  wild  blackbeny  vines. 
Dry  grass  and  yarrow  and  hollow  milkweed 
grew  high  in  the  gateways,  and  when  the  village 
children  went  through  them  to  prowl,  as  chil- 
dren love  to  prowl,  about  the  neglected  house 


14  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

and  orchard,  they  left  long,  dusty  wakes  in  the 
crushed  weeds.  Further  up  than  the  children 
usually  ventured,  there  was  an  old  bridge 
across  the  Lobos,  Captain  Holly's  private  road 
to  the  mill  town;  but  it  was  boarded  across  now, 
and  hundreds  of  chipmunks  nested  in  it,  and 
whisked  about  it  undisturbed.  The  great 
stables  and  barns  stood  empty;  the  fountains 
were  long  gone  dry.  Only  the  orchard  con- 
tinued to  bear  heavily. 

The  Holly  estate  ran  up  into  the  hill  behind 
it,  one  of  the  wooded  foothills  that  encircled  all 
Santa  Paloma,  as  they  encircle  so  many  Cali- 
fornia towns.  Already  turning  brown,  and 
crowned  with  dense,  low  groves  of  oak,  and  bay, 
and  madrona  trees,  they  shut  off  the  world  out- 
side; although  sometimes  on  a  still  day  the 
solemn  booming  of  the  ocean  could  be  heard 
beyond  them,  and  a  hundred  times  a  year  the 
Pacific   fogs   came   creeping   over   them   long 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  15 

before  dawn,  and  Santa  Paloma  awakened  in  an 
enveloping  cloud  of  soft  mist.  Here  and  there 
the  slopes  of  these  hills  were  checkered  with  the 
sharp  oblongs  and  angles  of  young  vineyards, 
and  hidden  by  the  thickening  green  of  peach 
and  apple  orchards.  A  few  low,  brown  dairy 
ranch-houses  were  perched  high  on  the  ridges; 
the  red-brown  moving  stream  of  the  cattle 
home-coming  in  mid-afternoon  could  be  seen 
from  the  village  on  a  clear  day.  And  over  hill 
and  valley,  on  this  wonderful  afternoon  in  late 
spring,  the  most  generous  sunhght  in  the  world 
lay  warm  and  golden,  and  across  them  the 
shadows  of  high  clouds — for  there  had  been 
rain  in  the  night — traveled  slowly. 

"I  declare,"  said  Httle  Mrs.  Carew  lazily,  "I 
could  go  to  sleep!" 


CHAPTER  II 

A  moment  later  when  a  tall  man  came  up  the 
path  and  dropped  on  the  top  porch  step  with  an 
air  of  being  entirely  at  home,  Mrs.  Carew  was 
still  dreaming,  half-awake  and  half-asleep. 

"Hello,  Jeanette!"  said  the  newcomer. 
''What's  new  with  thee,  coz?" 

"Don't  smoke  there,  Barry,  and  get  things 
mussy!"  said  Mrs.  Carew  in  return,  smiling  to 
soften  the  command,  and  to  show  Barry  Valen- 
tine that  he  was  welcome. 

Barry  was  usually  welcome  everywhere,  al- 
though not  at  all  approved  in  many  cases,  and 
criticised  even  by  the  people  who  liked  him  best. 
He  was  a  sort  of  fourth  cousin  of  Mrs.  Carew, 
who  sometimxCS  felt  herself  called  to  the  difficult 
task  of  defending  him  because  of  the  distant 

kinship.     He  was  very  handsome,  lean,  and 

i6 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  17 

dark,  with  a  sleepy  smile  and  with  eyes  that  all 
children  loved;  and  he  was  clever,  or,  at  least, 
everyone  beheved  him  to  be  so;  and  he  had 
charm — a  charm  of  sheer  sweetness,  for  he 
never  seemed  to  be  particularly  anxious  to 
please.  Barry  was  very  gallant,  in  an  imper- 
sonal sort  of  way:  he  took  a  keen,  elder- 
brotherly  sort  of  interest  in  every  pretty  girl  in 
the  village,  and  liked  to  discuss  their  own  love 
affairs  with  them,  with  a  seriousness  quite 
paternal.  He  never  singled  any  girl  out  for 
particular  attention,  or  escorted  one  unless 
asked,  but  he  was  flatteringly  attentive  to  all 
the  middle-aged  people  of  his  acquaintance  and 
his  big  helpful  hand  was  always  ready  for 
stumbling  old  women  on  the  church  steps,  or 
tearful  waifs  in  the  street — he  always  had  time 
to  listen  to  other  people's  troubles.  Barry — 
everyone  admitted — had  his  points.  But  after 
all 


1 8  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

After  all,  he  was  lazy,  and  shiftless,  and  un- 
ambitious: he  was  content  to  be  assistant 
editor  of  the  Mail;  content  to  be  bullied  and 
belittled  by  old  Rogers;  content  to  go  on  his 
own  idle,  sunny  way,  playing  with  his  small, 
chubby  son,  foraging  the  woods  with  a  dozen 
small  boys  at  his  heels,  working  patiently  over 
a  broken  gopher-trap  or  a  rusty  shotgun,  for 
some  small  admirer.  Worst  of  all,  Barry  had 
been  intemperate,  years  ago,  and  there  were 
people  who  believed  that  his  occasional  visits  to 
San  Francisco,  now,  were  merely  excuses  for 
revels  with  his  old  newspaper  friends  there. 

And  yet,  he  had  been  such  a  brilliant,  such  a 
fiery  and  ambitious  boy !  All  Santa  Paloma  had 
taken  pride  in  the  fact  that  Barry  Valentine, 
only  twenty,  had  been  offered  the  editorship  of 
the  one  newspaper  of  Plumas,  a  little  town  some 
twelve  miles  away,  and  had  prophesied  a  tri- 
umphant progress  for  him,  to  the  newspapers 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  19 

of  San  Francisco,  of  Chicago,  of  New  York! 
But  Barry  had  not  been  long  in  Plumas  when 
he  suddenly  married  Miss  Hetty  Scott  of  that 
town,  and  in  the  twelve  years  that  had  passed 
since  then  the  golden  dreams  for  his  future  had 
vanished  one  by  one,  until  to-day  found  him 
with  no  one  to  believe  in  him — not  even  him- 
self. 

Hetty  Scott  was  but  seventeen  when  Barry 
met  her,  and  already  the  winner  in  two  village 
contests  for  beauty  and  popularity.  After  their 
marriage  she  and  Barry  went  to  San  Francisco, 
and  shrewd,  little,  beautiful  Hetty  found  her- 
self more  admired  than  ever,  and  began  to  talk 
of  the  stage.  After  that,  Santa  Paloma  heard 
only  occasional  rumors:  Barry  had  a  position  on 
a  New  York  paper,  and  Hetty  was  studying  in 
a  dramatic  school ;  there  was  a  baby ;  there  were 
financial  troubles,  and  Barry  was  drinking 
again;  then  Hetty  was  dead,  and  Barry,  fearing 


20  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

the  severe  eastern  winters  for  the  delicate  baby, 
was  coming  back  to  Santa  Paloma.  So  back 
they  came,  and  there  had  been  no  indication 
since,  that  the  restless,  ambitious  Barry  of 
years  ago  was  not  dead  forever. 

"No  smoking?"  said  Barry  now,  good- 
naturedly.  "That's  so;  you've  got  some  sort 
of  'High  Jinks'  on  for  to-night,  haven't  you? 
I  brought  up  those  hinges  for  your  mixing  table, 
Jen,"  he  went  on,  "but  any  time  will  do.  I 
suppose  the  kitchen  is  right  on  the  fault,  as  it 
were." 

"The  kitchen  does  look  earthquakey,"  ad- 
mitted Mrs.  Carew  with  a  laugh,  "but  the  girls 
would  be  glad  to  have  the  extra  table;  so  go 
right  ahead.  I'll  take  you  out  in  a  second.  I 
have  been  on  the  go,"  she  added  wearily,  "since 
seven  this  morning :  my  feet  are  like  balls  of  fire. 
You  don't  know  what  the  details  are.  Why, 
just  tying  up  the  prizes  takes  a  good  hour!'' 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  21 

"Anything  go  wrong?"  asked  the  man 
sympathetically. 

"Oh,  no;  nothing  particular.  But  you  know 
how  a  house  has  to  look!  Even  the  bathrooms, 
and  our  room,  and  the  spare  room — the  cliil- 
dren  do  get  things  so  mussed.  It  all  sounds  so 
simple;  but  it  takes  such  a  time. " 

"Well,  Annie — doesn't  she  do  these  things?" 

"Oh,  ordinarily  she  does!  But  she  was 
sweeping  all  morning,  we  moved  things  about 
so  last  night,  and  there  was  china,  and  glasses 
to  get  down,  and  the  porches " 

"But,  Jeanette,"  said  Barry  Valentine  pa- 
tiently, "don't  you  keep  this  house  clean 
enough  ordinarily  without  these  orgies  of  clean- 
ing the  minute  anybody  comes  in?  I  never 
knew  such  a  house  for  women  to  open  windows, 
and  tie  up  curtains,  and  put  towels  over  their 
hair,  and  run  around  with  buckets  of  cold  suds. 
Why  this  extra  fuss?" 


22  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

"Well,  it's  not  all  cleaning,"  said  Mrs. 
Carew,  a  little  annoyed.  "It's  largely  sup- 
per; and  I'm  not  giving  anything  like 
the  suppers  Mrs.  White  and  Mrs.  Adams 
give." 

"  Why  don't  they  eat  at  home?  "  said  Mr.  Val- 
entine hospitably.  "What  do  they  come  for 
anyway?  To  see  the  house  or  each  other's 
clothes,  or  to  eat?  Women  are  funny  at  a  card 
party,"  he  went  on,  always  ready  to  expand  an 
argument  comfortably.  "It  takes  them  an 
hour  to  settle  down  and  see  how  everyone  else 
looks,  and  whether  there  happens  to  be  a  streak 
of  dust  under  the  piano;  and  then  when  the 
game  is  just  well  started,  a  maid  is  nudging  you 
in  the  elbow  to  take  a  plate  of  hot  chicken,  and 
another,  on  the  other  side,  is  holding  out 
sandwiches,  and  all  the  women  are  running 
to  look  at  the  prizes.  Now  when  men  play 
cards 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  23 

"Oh,  Barry,  don't  get  started!"  his  cousin 
impatiently  implored.  "I'm  too  tired  to  Hsten. 
Come  out  and  fix  the  table." 

"Wish  I  could  really  help  you,"  said  Barry, 
as  they  crossed  the  hall ;  and  as  a  further  attempt 
to  soothe  her  ruffled  feelings,  he  added  amiably, 
"  The  place  looks  fine.  The  buttercups  came  up, 
didn't  they?" 

"Beautifully !  You  were  a  dear  to  get  them," 
said  Mrs.  Carew,  quite  mollified. 

Welcomed  openly  by  all  four  maids,  Barry 
was  soon  contentedly  busy  with  screws  and 
molding-board,  in  a  corner  of  the  sunny  kitchen. 
He  and  Mrs.  Binney  immediately  entered  upon 
a  spirited  discussion  of  equal  suffrage,  to  the 
intense  amusement  of  the  others,  who  kept  him 
supphed  with  sandwiches,  cake  and  various 
other  dainties.  The  little  piece  of  work  was 
presently  finished  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of 
everyone,  and  Barry  had  pocketed  his  tools,  and 


24  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

was  ready  to  go,  when  Mrs.  Carew  returned  to 
the  Idtchen  wide-eyed  with  news. 

"Barry,"  said  she,  closing  the  door  behind 
her,  "George  is  here!" 

"Well,  George  has  a  right  here,"  said  Barry, 
as  the  lady  cast  a  cautious  glance  over  her 
shoulder. 

"But  listen,"  his  cousin  said  excitedly;  "he 
thinks  he  has  sold  the  Holly  house!" 

"Gee  whiz!"  said  Barry  simply. 

"To  a  Mrs.  Burgoyne,"  rushed  on  Mrs. 
Carew.  "She's  out  there  with  George  on  the 
porch  now;  a  widow,  with  two  children,  and  she 
looks  so  sweet.  She  knows  the  Hollys.  Oh, 
Barry,  if  she  only  takes  it;  such  a  dandy  com- 
mission for  George!  He's  terribly  excited  him- 
self. I  can  tell  by  the  calm,  bored  way  she's 
talking  about  it." 

"Who  is  she?  Where'd  she  come  from?'* 
demanded  Barry. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  25 

"  From  New  York.  Her  father  died  last  year, 
in  Washington,  I  think  she  said,  and  she  wants 
to  live  quietly  somewhere  with  the  children. 
Barry,  will  you  be  an  angel?" 

"Eventually,  I  hope  to,"  said  Mr.  Valentine, 
grinning,  but  she  did  not  hear  him. 

"Could  you,  would  you,  take  her  over  the 
place  this  afternoon,  Barrj'?  She  seems  sure 
she  wants  it,  and  George  feels  he  must  get  back 
to  the  office  to  see  Tilden.  You  know  he's  going 
to  sign  for  a  whole  floor  of  the  Pratt  Building 
to-day.  George  can't  keep  Tilden  waiting,  and  it 
won't  be  a  bit  hard  for  you,  Barry.  George  sa3^s 
to  promise  her  anything.  She  just  wants  to  see 
about  bathrooms,  and  so  on.    Will  you,  Barry?  " 

"Sure  I  will,"  said  the  obliging  Barry.  And 
when  Mrs.  Carew  asked  him  if  he  would  like  to 
go  upstairs  and  brush  up  a  little,  he  accepted 
the  delicate  reflection  upon  the  state  of  his  hair 
and  hands,  and  said  "sure"  again. 


CHAPTER  III 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  was  a  sweet-faced,  fresh- 
looking  woman  about  thirty-two  or  -three  years 
old,  with  a  quick  smile,  like  a  child's,  and  blue 
eyes,  set  far  apart,  with  a  little  lift  at  the  cor- 
ners, that,  under  level  heavy  brows,  gave  a 
suggestion  of  something  almost  Oriental  to  her 
face.  She  was  dressed  simply  in  black,  and  a 
transparent  black  veil,  falling  from  her  wide  hat 
and  flung  back,  framed  her  face  most  becom- 
ingly in  square  crisp  folds. 

She  and  Barry  presently  walked  up  River 

Street  in  the  mellow  afternoon  sunlight,  and 

through  the  old  wooden  gates  of  the  Holly 

grounds.    On  every  side  were  great  high-flung 

sprays  of  overgrown  roses,  dusty  and  choked 

with  weeds,  ragged  pepper  tassels  dragged  in 

26 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  27 

the  grass,  and  where  the  path  lay  under  the 
eucalyptus  trees  it  was  slippery  with  the  dry, 
crescent-shaped  leaves.  Bees  hummed  over 
rank  poppies  and  tangled  honeysuckle;  once  or 
twice  a  hummingbird  came  through  the  garden 
on  some  swift,  whizzing  journey,  and  there  were 
other  birds  in  the  trees,  little  shy  brown  birds, 
silent  but  busy  in  the  late  afternoon.  Close  to 
the  house  an  old  garden  faucet  dripped  and 
dripped,  and  a  noisy,  changing  group  of  the 
brown  birds  were  bathing  and  flashing  about  it. 
\  The  old  Hall  stood  on  a  rise  of  ground,  clear 
of  the  trees,  and  bathed  in  sunshine.  It  was  an 
ugly  house,  following  as  it  did  the  fashion  of  the 
late  seventies;  but  it  was  not  undignified,  with 
its  big  door  flanked  by  bay-windows  and  its 
narrow  porch  bounded  by  a  fat  wooden  balus- 
trade and  heavy  columns.  The  porch  and  steps 
were  weather-stained  and  faded,  and  littered 
now  with  fallen  leaves  and  twigs. 


28  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

Barry  opened  the  front  door  with  some  dif- 
ficulty, and  they  stepped  into  the  musty  empti- 
ness of  the  big  main  hall.  There  was  a  stairway 
at  the  back  of  the  house  with  a  colored  glass 
window  on  the  landing,  and  through  it  the  sun- 
light streamed,  showing  the  old  velvet  carpet  in 
the  hall  below,  and  the  carved  heavy  walnut 
chairs  and  tables,  and  the  old  engravings  in 
their  frames  of  oak  and  walnut  mosaic.  The 
visitors  peeped  into  the  old  library,  odorous  of 
unopened  books,  and  with  great  curtains  of 
green  rep  shutting  out  the  light,  and  into  the 
music  room  behind  it,  cold  even  on  this  warm 
day,  with  a  muffled  grand  piano  drawn  free  of 
the  walls,  and  near  it  two  piano-stools,  up- 
holstered in  blue-fringed  rep,  to  match  the 
curtains  and  chairs.  They  went  across  the  hall 
to  the  long,  dim  drawing  room,  where  there  was 
another  velvet  carpet,  dulled  to  a  red  pink  by 
time,  and  muffled  pompous  sofas  and  chairs, 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  29 

and  great  mirrors,  and  "sets"  of  candlesticks 
and  vases  on  the  mantels  and  what-nots.  The 
windows  were  shuttered  here,  the  air  lifeless. 
Barry,  in  George  Carew's  interest,  felt  bound 
to  say  that  "they  would  clear  all  this  up,  you 
know;  a  lot  of  this  stuff  could  be  stored." 
!  "Oh,  why  store  it?  It's  perfectly  good,"  the 
lady  answered  absently. 

1  Presently  they  went  out  to  the  more  cheerful 
dining-room,  which  ran  straight  across  the 
house,  and  was  low-ceiled,  with  pleasant  square- 
paned  windows  on  two  sides. 

"This  was  the  old  house,"  explained  Barry; 
"they  added  on  the  fro'  ^  part.  You  could  do  a 
lot  with  this  room." 

"Do  you  still  smell  spice,  and  apples,  and 
cider  here?"  said  Mrs,  Burgoyne,  turning  from 
an  investigation  of  the  china-closet,  with  a 
radiant  face.  A  moment  later  she  caught  her 
breath  suddenly,  and  walked  across  the  room 


30  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

to  stand,  resting  her  hands  on  a  chair  back, 
before  a  large  portrait  that  hung  above  the 
fireplace.  She  stood  so,  gazing  at  the  picture — 
the  portrait  of  a  woman — for  a  full  minute,  and 
when  she  turned  again  to  Barry,  her  eyes  were 
bright  with  tears. 

"That's  Mrs.  Holly,"  said  she.  "Emily  said 
that  picture  was  here."  And  turning  back  to 
the  canvas,  she  added  under  her  breath,  "You 
darling!" 

"Did  you  know  her?"  Barry  asked,  sur- 
prised. 

"Did  I  know  her!"  Mrs.  Burgoyne  echoed 
softly,  without  turning.  "Yes,  I  knew  her," 
she  added,  almost  musingly.  And  then  sud- 
denly she  said,  "Come,  let's  look  upstairs,"  and 
led  the  wa}^  by  the  twisted  sunny  back  stairway, 
which  had  a  window  on  every  landing  and 
Crimson  Rambler  roses  pressing  against  every 
window.    They  looked  into  several  bedrooms, 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  31 

all  dusty,  close,  sunshiny.  In  the  largest  of 
these,  a  big  front  corner  room,  carpeted  in  dark 
red,  with  a  black  marble  fireplace  and  an  im- 
mense walnut  bed,  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  looking 
through  a  window  that  she  had  opened  upon  the 
lovely  panorama  of  river  and  woods,  said 
suddenly: 

"  This  must  be  my  room,  it  was  hers.  She  was 
the  best  friend,  in  one  way,  that  I  ever  had — 
Mrs.  Holly.    How  happy  I  was  here!" 

"Here?"  Barry  echoed. 

At  his  tone  she  turned,  and  looked  keenly  at 
him,  a  Uttle  smjle  playing  about  her  lips.  Then 
her  face  suddenly  brightened. 

"Barry,  of  course!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  knew 
I  knew  you,  but  the  'Mr.  Valentine'  confused 
me."  And  facing  him  radiantly,  she  demanded, 
"Who  am  I?" 

Barry  shook  his  head  slowly,  his  puzzled, 
smiling  eyes  on  hers.    For  a  moment  they  faced 


32  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

each  other;  then  his  look  cleared  as  hers  had 
done,  and  their  hands  met  as  he  said  boyishly: 

"Well,  I  will  be  hanged!  Jappy  Frothing- 
ham!" 

"Jappy  Frothingham!"  she  echoed  joyously. 
"But  I  haven't  heard  that  name  for  twenty 
years.  And  you're  the  boy  whose  father  was  a 
doctor,  and  who  helped  us  build  our  Indian 
camp,  and  who  had  the  frog,  and  fell  off  the 
roof,  and  killed  the  rattlesnake." 

"And  you're  the  girl  from  Washington  who 
could  speak  French,  and  who  put  that  stuff  on 
my  freckles  and  wouldn't  let  'em  drown  the 
kittens." 

"Oh,  yes,  yes!"  she  said,  and,  their  hands 
still  joined,  they  laughed  like  happy  children 
together. 

Presently,  more  gravely,  she  told  him  a  little 
of  herself,  of  the  early  marriage,  and  the  dip- 
lomat husband  whose  career  was  so  cruelly  cut 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  33 

short  by  years  of  hopeless  invalidism.  Then 
had  come  her  father's  illness,  and  years  of  travel 
with  him,  and  now  she  and  the  little  girls  were 
alone.  And  in  return  Barry  sketched  his  own 
life,  told  her  a  little  of  Hetty,  and  his  unhappy 
days  in  New  York,  and  of  the  boy,  and  finally 
of  the  Mail.  Her  absorbed  attention  followed 
him  from  point  to  point. 

"And  you  say  that  this  Rogers  owns  the 
newspaper?"  she  asked  thoughtfully,  when  the 
Mail  was  under  discussion. 

"Rogers  owns  it;  that's  the  trouble.  Nothing 
goes  into  it  without  the  old  man's  consent." 
Barry  tested  the  spring  of  a  roller  shade,  with 
a  scowl.  "Barnes,  the  assistant  editor  he  had 
before  me,  threw  up  his  job  because  he  wouldn't 
stand  having  his  stuff  cut  all  to  pieces  and 
changed  to  suit  Rogers'  policies,"  he  went  on, 
as  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  eyes  demanded  more  de- 
tail.   "And  that's  what  I'll  do  some  day.    In 


34  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

the  six  years  since  the  old  man  bought  it,  the 
circulation  has  fallen  off  about  half;  we  don't 
get  any  '  ads';  we're  not  paying  expenses.  It's 
a  crime  too,  for  it's  a  good  paper.  Even  Rogers 
is  sick  of  it  now;  he'd  sell  for  a  song.  I'd  borrow 
the  money  and  buy  it  if  it  weren't  for  the 
presses;  I'd  have  to  have  new  presses.  Every- 
thing here  is  in  pretty  good  shape,"  he  finished, 
with  an  air  of  changing  the  subject. 

"And  what  would  new  presses  cost?"  Sidney 
Burgoyne  persisted,  pausing  on  the  big  main 
stairway,  as  they  were  leaving  the  house  a  few 
minutes  later. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."  Barry  opened  the  front 
door  again,  and  they  stepped  out  to  the  porch. 
"Altogether,"  he  said  vaguely,  snapping  dead 
twigs  from  the  heavy  unpruned  growth  of  the 
rose  vines,  "altogether,  I  wouldn't  go  into  it 
without  ten  thousand.  Five  for  the  new  presses, 
say,  and  four  to  Rogers  for  the  business  and 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  35 

good- will,  and  something  to  run  on — although," 
Barry  interrupted  himself  with  a  vehemence 
that  surprised  her,  "although  I'll  bet  that  the 
old  Mail  would  be  paying  her  own  rent  and 
salaries  within  two  months.  The  Dispatch 
doesn't  amount  to  much,  and  the  Star  is  a 
regular  back  number!"  He  stood  staring 
gloomily  down  at  the  roofs  of  the  village; 
Mrs.  Burgoyne,  a  little  tired,  had  seated  herself 
on  the  top  step. 

"I  wish,  in  all  seriousness,  you'd  tell  me 
about  it,"  she  said.  "I  am  really  interested. 
If  I  buy  this  place,  it  will  mean  that  we  come 
here  to  stay  for  years  perhaps,  and  I  have  some 
money  I  want  to  invest  here.  I  had  thought  of 
real  estate,  but  it  needn't  necessarily  be  that. 
It  sounds  to  me  as  if  you  really  ought  to  make 
an  effort  to  buy  the  paper,  Barry.  Have  you 
thought  of  getting  anyone  to  go  into  it  with 
you?" 


36  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

The  man  laughed,  perhaps  a  little  embar- 
rassed. 

"Never  here,  really.  I  went  to  Walter  Pratt 
about  it  once,"  he  admitted,  ''but  he  said  he 
was  all  tied  up.  Some  of  the  fellows  down  in 
San  Francisco  might  have  come  in — but  Lord! 
I  don't  want  to  settle  here;  I  hate  this  place." 

"But  why  do  you  hate  it? "  Her  honest  eyes 
met  his  in  surprise  and  reproof.  "I  can't  un- 
derstand it,  perhaps  because  I've  thought  of 
Santa  Paloma  as  a  sort  of  Mecca  for  so  many 
years  myself.  My  visit  here  was  the  sweetest 
and  simplest  experience  I  ever  had  in  my  life. 
You  see  I  had  a  wretchedly  artificial  childhood; 
I  used  to  read  of  country  homes  and  big  families 
and  good  times  in  books,  but  I  was  an  only 
child,  and  even  then  my  life  was  spoiled  by 
senseless  formalities  and  conventions.  I've 
remembered  all  these  years  the  simple  gowns 
Mrs.  Holly  used  to  wear  here,  and  the  way  she 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  ^7 

played  with  us,  and  the  village  women  coming 
in  for  tea  and  sewing;  it  was  all  so  sane  and  so 
sweet!" 

"Our  coming  here  was  the  merest  chance. 
My  father  and  I  were  on  our  way  home  from 
Japan,  you  know,  and  he  suddenly  remembered 
that  the  Hollys  were  near  San  Francisco,  and 
we  came  up  here  for  a  night.  That,"  said  Mrs. 
Burgoyne  in  a  lower  tone,  as  if  half  to  herself, 
''that  was  twenty  years  ago;  I  was  only  twelve, 
but  I've  never  forgotten  it.  Fred  and  Oliver 
and  Emily  and  I  had  our  supper  on  the  side 
porch;  and  afterward  they  played  in  the  garden, 
but  I  was  shy — I  had  never  played — and  Mrs. 
Holly  kept  me  beside  her  on  the  porch,  and 
talked  to  me  now  and  then,  and  finally  she 
asked  me  if  I  would  hke  to  spend  the  summer 
with  her!  Like  to! — I  wonder  my  heart  didn't 
burst  with  joy!  Father  said  no;  but  after  we 
children  had  gone  to  bed,   they  discussed  it 


38  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

again.  How  Emily  and  I  prayed!  And  after  a 
while  Fred  tiptoed  down  to  the  landing,  and 
came  up  jubilant.  'I  heard  mother  say  that 
what  clothes  Sidney  needed  could  be  bought 
right  here,'  he  said.    Emily  began  to  laugh,  and 

I  to  cry !"    She  turned  her  back  on  Barry, 

and  he,  catching  a  glimpse  of  her  wet  eyes,  took 
up  the  conversation  himself, 

"I  don't  remember  her  very  well,"  he  said; 
"a  boy  wouldn't.  She  died  soon  after  that 
summer,  and  the  boys  went  off  to  school." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  the  lady  said  thoughtfully. 
"I  had  the  news  in  Rome — a  hot,  bright,  glaring 
day.  It  was  nearly  a  month  after  her  death, 
then.  And  even  then,  I  said  to  myself  that  I'd 
come  back  here,  some  day.  But  it's  not  been 
possible  until  now;  and  now,"  her  voice  was 
bright  and  steady  again,  "here  I  am.  And  I 
don't  like  to  hear  an  old  friend  abusing  Santa 
Paloma." 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  59 

"It's  a  nice  enough  place,"  Barry  admitted, 
"but  the  people  are — well,  you  wait  until  you 
meet  the  women!  Perhaps  they're  not  much 
worse  than  women  everywhere  else,  but  some- 
times it  doesn't  seem  as  if  the  women  here  had 
good  sense.  I  don't  mean  the  nice  quiet  ones 
who  live  out  on  the  ranches  and  are  bringing 
up  a  houseful  of  children,  but  this  River  Street 
crowd." 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  them?" 
asked  Mrs.  Burgoyne  with  vivacity. 

"Oh,  I  mean  this  business  of  playing  bridge 
four  afternoons  a  week,  and  running  to  the 
club,  and  tearing  around  in  motor-cars  all  day 
Sunday,  and  entertaining  the  way  they  think 
people  do  it  in  New  York,  and  getting  their 
dresses  in  San  Francisco  instead  of  up  here," 
Barry  explained  disgustedly.  "Some  of  them 
would  be  nice  enough  if  they  weren't  trying  to 
go  each  other  one  better  all  the  time;  when  one 


40  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

gets  a  thing  the  others  have  all  got  to  have  it, 
or  have  something  nicer.  Take  the  Browns, 
now,  your  neighbors  there " 

"In  the  shingled  house,  with  the  babies 
swinging  on  the  gate  as  we  came  by?  " 

"Yes,  that's  it.  They've  got  four  Httle  boys. 
Doctor  Brown  is  a  king;  everybody  worships 
him,  and  she's  a  sweet  little  woman;  but  of 
course  she's  got  to  strain  and  struggle  like  the 
rest  of  them.  There's  a  Mrs.  Willard  White  in 
this  town — that  big  gray-shingled  place  down 
there  is  their  garage — and  she  runs  the  whole 
place.  She's  always  letting  the  others  know 
that  hobbles  are  out,  and  everything's  got  to 
hang  from  the  shoulder " 

"Very  good!"  laughed  Mrs.  Burgoyne, 
"you've  got  that  very  nearly  right." 

"Willard  White's  a  nice  fellow,"  Barry  went 
on,  "except  that  he's  a  little  cracked  about  his 
Packard.    They  give  motoring  parties,  and  of 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  41 

course  they  stop  at  hotels  way  up  the  country 
for  lunch,  and  the  women  have  got  to  have 
veils  and  special  hats  and  coats,  and  so  on. 
Wayne  Adams  told  me  it  stood  him  in  about 
thirty  dollars  every  time  he  went  out  with  the 
Whites.  Wayne's  got  his  own  car  now;  his  wife 
kept  at  him  day  and  night  to  get  it.  But  he 
can't  run  it,  so  it's  in  the  garage  half  the  time." 
''That's  the  worst  of  motoring,"  said  the 
lady  with  a  thoughtful  nod,  "the  people  who 
sell  them  think  they've  answered  you  when  they 
say,  'But  you  don't  run  it  economically.  If 
you  understood  it,  it  wouldn't  cost  you  half  so 
much ! '  And  the  alternative  is,  '  Get  a  man  at 
seventy-five  dollars  a  month  and  save  repairing 
and  replacing  bills.'  Nice  for  business,  Barry, 
but  very  much  overdone  for  pleasure,  I  think. 
I  myself  hate  those  days  spent  with  five  people 
you  hardly  know,"  she  went  on,  "rushing  over 
beautiful  roads  that  you  hardly  see,  eating  too 


42  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

much  in  strange  hotels,  and  paying  too  much 
for  it.  I  sha'n't  have  a  car.  But  tell  me  more 
about  the  people.  Who  are  the  Adamses? 
Didn't  you  say  Adams?" 

"Wayne  Adams;  nice  people,  with  two  nice 
boys,"  he  supphed;  "but  she's  like  the  rest. 
Wayne  lies  awake  nights  worrying  about  bills, 
and  she  gives  silver  photograph-frames  for 
bridge  prizes.  That  white  stucco  house  where 
they're  putting  in  an  Italian  garden,  is  the 
Parker  Lloyds.  Mrs.  Lloyd's  a  clever  woman, 
and  pretty  too;  but  she  doesn't  seem  to  have 
any  sense.  They've  got  a  little  girl,  and  she'll 
tell  you  that  Mabel  never  wore  a  stitch  that 
wasn't  hand-made  in  her  life.  Lloyd  had  a 
nervous  breakdown  a  few  months  ago — we  all 
knew  it  was  nothing  but  money  worry — but 
yesterday  his  wife  said  to  me  in  all  good  faith 
that  he  was  too  unselfish,  he  was  wearing  him- 
self out.     She  was  trying  to  persuade  him  to 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  43 

put  Mabel  in  school  and  go  abroad  for  a  good 
rest." 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  laughed. 

'' That's  like  Jeanette  Carew  showing  me  her 
birthday  present,"  Barry  went  on  with  a  grin. 
"It  seems  that  George  gave  her  a  complete  set 
of  bureau  ivory — two  or  three  dozen  pieces  in 
all,  I  guess.  When  I  asked  her  she  admitted  that 
she  had  silver,  but  she  said  she  wanted  ivory, 
everybody  has  ivory  now.  Present!"  he  re- 
peated with  scorn,  "why,  she  just  told  George 
what  she  wanted,  and  went  down  and  charged 
it  to  him!  She's  worried  to  death  about  bills 
now,  but  she  started  right  in  talking  motor-cars; 
and  they'll  have  one  3Tt.  I'd  give  a  good  deal," 
he  finished  disgustedly,  "to  know  what  they  get 
out  of  it." 

"I  don't  believe  they're  as  bad  as  all  that," 
said  the  lady.  "There  used  to  be  some  lovely 
people  here,  and  there  was  a  whist  club  too,  and 


44  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

it  was  very  nice.  They  played  for  a  silver  fork 
and  spoon  every  fortnight,  and  I  remember  that 
Mrs.  Holly  had  nearly  a  dozen  of  the  forks. 
There  was  a  darling  Mrs.  Apostleman,  and  a 
Mrs.  Pratt  with  two  shy  pretty  daughters — " 
i:  "Mrs.  Apostleman's  still  here,"  he  told  her. 
"She's  a  fine  old  lady.  When  a  woman  gets  to 
be  sixty,  it  doesn't  seem  to  matter  if  she  wastes 
time.  Mrs.  Pratt  is  dead,  and  Lizzie  is  married 
and  lives  in  San  Francisco,  but  Anne's  still  here. 
She  and  her  brother  live  in  that  vault  of  a  gray 
house;  you  can  see  the  chimneys.  Anne's  an- 
other," his  tone  was  cynical  again,  "a  shy, 
nervous  woman,  always  getting  new  dresses, 
and  always  on  club  reception  committees,  with 
white  gloves  and  a  ribbon  in  her  hair,  frightened 
to  death  for  fear  she's  not  doing  the  correct 
thing.  They've  just  had  a  frieze  of  English 
tapestries  put  in  the  drawing-room  and  hall, — ■ 
English  tapestries!  ^\ 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  45 

"Perhaps  you  don't  appreciate  tapestries," 
said  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  with  her  twinkhng  smile. 
"You  know  there  is  a  popular  theory  that  such 
things  keep  money  in  circulation." 

"You  know  there's  hardly  any  form  of  fool- 
ishness or  vice  of  which  you  can't  say  that," 
he  reminded  her  soberly;  and  Mrs.  Burgoyne, 
serious  in  turn,  answered  quickly: 

"Yes,  you're  quite  right.  It's  too  bad;  we 
American  women  seem  somehow  to  have  let 
go  of  everything  real,  in  the  last  few  generations. 
But  things  are  coming  around  again."  She 
rose  from  the  steps,  still  facing  the  village. 
"Tell  me,  who  is  my  nearest  neighbor  there,  in 
the  white  cottage?  "  she  demanded. 

"I  am,"  Barry  said  unexpectedly.  "So  if 
you  need — yeast  is  it,  that  women  always 
borrow?" 

"Yeast,"  she  assented  laughing.  "I  will 
remember.    And  now  tell  me  about  trains  and 


46  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

things.  Listen!"  Her  voice  and  look  changed 
suddenly:  softened,  brightened.  "Is  that  chil- 
dren?" she  asked,  eagerly. 

And  a  moment  later  four  children,  tired, 
happy  and  laden  with  orchard  spoils,  came 
around  the  corner  of  the  house.  Barry  pre- 
sented them  as  the  Carews — George  and  Jean- 
ette,  a  bashful  fourteen  and  a  self-possessed 
twelve,  and  Dick,  who  was  seven — and  his 
own  small  dusty  son,  Billy  Valentine,  who  put 
a  fat  confiding  hand  in  the  strange  lady's  as 
they  all  went  down  to  the  gate  together. 

"You  are  my  Joanna's  age,  Jeanette,"  said 
Mrs.  Burgoyne,  easily.  "I  hope  you  will  be 
friends." 

"Who  will  I  be  friends  with?"  said  Httle 
Billy,  raising  blue  expectant  eyes.  "And  who 
will  George?" 

"Why,  I  hope  you  will  be  friends  with  me," 
she  answered  laughing;  "and  I  will  be  so  re- 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  47 

lieved  if  George  will  come  up  sometimes  and 
help  me  with  bonfires  and  about  what  ought  to 
be  done  in  the  stable.  You  see,  I  don't  know 
much  about  those  things."  At  this  moment 
George,  hoarsely  muttering  that  he  wasn't 
much  good,  he  guessed,  but  he  had  some  good 
tools,  fell  deeply  a  victim  to  her  charms. 

Mrs.  Carew  came  out  of  her  own  gate  as  they 
came  up,  and  there  was  time  for  a  little  talk, 
and  promises,  and  goodbyes.  Then  Barry  took 
JNIrs.  Burgoyne  to  the  station,  and  lifted  his  hat 
to  the  bright  face  at  the  window  as  the  train 
pulled  out  in  the  dusk.  He  went  slowly  to  his 
ofiQce  from  the  train  and  attacked  the  htter  of 
papers  and  clippings  on  his  desk  absent- 
mindedly.  Once  he  said  half  aloud,  his  big 
scissors  arrested,  his  forehead  furrowed  by  an 
unaccustomed  frown,  ''We  were  only  kids  then; 
and  they  all  thought  I  was  the  one  who  was 
going  to  do  something  big." 


CHAPTER  IV 

Barry  appeared  at  Mrs.  Carew's  house  a 
little  after  midnight  to  find  the  card-players  en- 
joying a  successful  supper,  and  the  one  topic  of 
conversation  the  possible  sale  of  Holly  Hall. 
Barry,  suspected  of  having  news  of  it,  was 
warmly  welcomed  by  the  tired,  bright-eyed 
women  and  the  men  in  their  somewhat  rumpled 
evening  clothes,  and  supplied  with  salad  and 
coffee. 

"Is  she  really  coming,  Barry?"  demanded 
Mrs.  Lloyd  eagerly.  "And  how  soon?  We 
have  been  saying  what  wonders  could  be  done 
for  the  Hall  with  a  little  money." 

"The  price  didn't  seem  to  worry  her,"  said 
George  Carew. 

"Oh,   she's  coming,"  Barry  assured  them; 

"you  can  consider  it  settled." 

48 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  49 

"Good!"  said  old  Mrs,  Apostleman  in  her 
deep,  emphatic  voice.  "She'll  have  to  make 
the  house  over,  of  course;  but  the  stable  ought 
to  make  a  very  decent  garage.  Mark  my 
words,  me  dears,  ye'll  see  som.e  very  star- 
tling changes  up  there,  before  the  summer's 
out." 

"The  house  could  be  made  colonial,"  sub- 
mitted Mrs.  Adams,  "or  mission,  for  that 
matter." 

"No,  you  couldn't  make  it  mission,"  Mrs. 
Willard  White  decided,  and  several  voices  mur- 
mured, "No,  you  couldn't  do  that."  "But 
colonial — it  would  be  charming,"  the  authority 
went  on.  "Personally,  I'd  tear  the  whole  thing 
down  and  rebuild,"  said  Mrs.  White  further; 
"but  with  hardwood  floors  throughout,  tapestry 
papers,  or  the  new  grass  papers — like  Amy's 
library,  Will — white  paint  on  all  the  v/ood- 
work,  white  and  cream  outside,  some  really 


50  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

good  furniture,  and  the  garden  made  over — 
you  wouldn't  know  the  place." 

"But  that  would  take  months,"  said  Mrs. 
Carew  ruefully. 

"And  cost  like  sixty,"  added  Dr.  Brown,  at 
which  there  was  a  laugh. 

"Well,  she  won't  wait  any  six  months,  or  six 
weeks  either,"  Barry  predicted.  "And  don't 
you  vrorry  about  the  expense.  Doctor.  Do  you 
know  who  she  w.?" 

They  all  looked  at  him.  "Who?"  said  ten 
voices  together. 

"Why,  her  father  was  Frothingham — Paul 
Frothingham,  the  inventor.  Her  husband  was 
Colonel  John  Burgoyne; — you  all  know  the 
name.  He  was  quite  a  big  man,  too— a 
diplomat.  Their  wedding  was  one  of  those 
big  Washington  affairs.  A  few  years  later 
Burgoyne  had  an  accident,  and  he  was  an 
invalid  for  about  six  years  after   that — until 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  51 

his  death,  in  fact.  She  traveled  with  him 
everywhere." 

"Sidney  Frothingham ! "  said  Mrs.  Carew. 
"I  remember  Emily  Holly  used  to  have  letters 
from  her.  She  was  presented  at  the  English 
court  when  she  was  quite  young,  I  remember, 
and  she  used  to  visit  at  the  White  House,  too. 
So  thafs  who  she  is!" 

"I  remember  the  child's  visit  here  perfectly,'' 
Mrs.  Apostleman  said,  "tall,  lanky  girl  with 
very  charming  manners.  Her  husband  was  at 
St.  Petersburg  for  a  while;  then  in  London — 
was  it?    You  ought  to  know,  Clara,  me  dear — 

I'm  not  sure Even  after  his  accident  they 

went  on  some  sort  of  diplomatic  mission  to 
Madrid,  or  Stockholm,  or  somewhere,  remem- 
ber it  perfectly." 

"Colonel  Burgoyne  must  have  had  money," 
said  Mrs.  White,  tentatively. 

"Some,    I    think,"    Barry    answered;    "but 


52  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

it     was     her     father     who     was     rich,     of 


course " 


"Certainly!"  approved  Mrs.  Apostleman, 
fanning  herself  majestically.  "Rich  as  Croesus; 
multi-millionaire." 

"Heavens  alive!"  said  Mrs.  Lloyd  unaffect- 
edly. 

"Yes,"  Willard  White  eyed  the  tip  of  a  cigar 
thoughtfully,  "yes,  I  remember  he  worked  his 
own  patents;  had  his  own  factories.  Paul 
Frothingham  must  have  left  something  in 
the  neighborhood  of — ^well,  two  or  three  mil- 
lions  " 

"Two  or  three!"  echoed  Mrs.  Apostleman  in 
regal  scorn.    "Make  it  eight!" 

"Eight!"  said  Mrs.  Bro\-\Ti  faintly. 

"Well,  that  would  be  about  my  estimate," 
Barry  agreed. 

"He  was  a  big  man,  Frothingham,"  Dr. 
Brown  said  reflectively.     "Well,  well,  ladies, 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  53 

here's  a  chance  for  Santa  Paloma  to  put  her  best 
foot  forward." 

"What  won't  she  do  to  the  Hall!"  Mrs. 
Adams  remarked;  Mrs.  Carew  sighed. 

"It — it  rather  staggers  one  to  think  of  tr}dng 
to  entertain  a  woman  worth  eight  millions, 
doesn't  it?"  said  she. 


CHAPTER  V 

From  the  moment  of  her  arrival  in  Santa 
Paloma,  when  she  stood  on  the  station  platform 
with  a  brisk  spring  wind  blowing  her  veil  about 
her  face,  and  a  small  and  chattering  girl  on  each 
side  of  her,  Mrs.  Burgoyne  sefemed  inclined  to 
meet  the  friendly  overtures  of  her  new  neighbors 
more  than  half-way.  She  remembered  the 
baggage-agent's  name  from  her  visit  two  weeks 
before — "thank  Mr.  Roberts  for  his  trouble, 
Ellen" — and  met  the  aged  driver  of  the  one 
available  carriage  with  a  ready  "Good  after- 
noon, Mr.  Rivers!"  Within  a  week  she  had 
her  pew  in  church,  her  box  at  the  post-office, 
her  membership  in  the  library,  and  a  definite 
rumor  was  afloat  to  the  effect  that  she  had 
invested  several  thousand  dollars  in  the  Mailj 

54 


THE  RICH  AIRS.  BURGOYNE  55 

and  that  Barry  Valentine  had  bought  the  paper 
from  old  Rogers  outright;  and  had  ordered 
new  rotary  presses,  and  was  at  last  to  have  a 
free  hand  as  managing  editor.  The  pretty 
young  mistress  of  Holly  Hall,  with  her  two 
children  dancing  beside  her,  and  her  ready 
pleased  flush  and  greeting  for  new  friends, 
became  a  familiar  figure  in  Santa  Paloma's 
streets.  She  was  even  seen  once  or  twice  across 
the  river,  in  the  mill  colony,  having,  for  some 
mysterious  reason,  immediately  opened  the 
bridge  that  led  from  her  own  grounds  to  that 
unsavory  region. 

She  was  not  formal,  not  unapproachable,  as  it 
had  been  feared  she  might  be.  On  the  contrary, 
she  was  curiously  democratic.  And,  for  a 
woman  straight  from  the  shops  of  Paris  and 
New  York,  her  clothes  seemed  to  the  women  of 
Santa  Paloma  to  be  surprising,  too.  She  and 
her  daughters  wore  plain  ginghams  for  every 


56  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

day,  with  plain  wide  hats  and  trim  serge  coats 
for  foggy  mornings.  And  on  Sundays  it  was 
certainly  extraordinary  to  meet  the  Burgoynes, 
bound  for  church,  wearing  the  simplest  of 
dimit}-  or  cross-barred  muslin  wash  dresses, 
with  black  stockings  and  shoes,  and  hats  as 
plain — far  plainer! — as  those  of  the  smallest 
children.  Except  for  the  amazing  emeralds 
that  blazed  beside  her  v/edding  ring,  and  the 
diamonds  she  sometimes  wore,  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
might  have  been  a  trained  nurse  in  uniform. 

''It  is  a  pose,"  said  Mrs.  Willard  White,  at 
the  club,  to  a  few  intimate  friends.  "She's 
probably  imitating  some  English  countess. 
Englishwomen  affect  simplicity  in  the  country. 
But  wait  until  we  see  her  evening  frocks. " 

It  was  felt  that  any  formal  calling  upon  Mrs. 
Burgojme  must  wait  until  the  supposedly  in- 
evitable session  with  carpenters,  painters,  paper- 
hangers,  carpet-layers,  upholsterers,  decorators, 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  57 

furniture  dealers,  and  gardeners  was  over  at  the 
Hall.  But  although  the  old  house  had  been 
painted  and  the  plumbing  overhauled  before 
the  new  owner's  arrival,  and  although  all  day 
long  and  every  day  two  or  three  Portuguese 
day-laborers  chopped  and  pruned  and  shouted 
in  the  garden,  a  week  and  then  two  weeks 
slipped  by,  and  no  further  evidences  of  renova- 
tion were  to  be  seen. 

So  presently  callers  began  to  go  up  to  the 
Hall;  first  Mrs.  Apostleman  and  Mrs.  White,  as 
was  fitting,  and  then  a  score  of  other  women. 
Mrs.  Apostleman  had  been  the  social  leader  in 
Santa  Paloma  when  Mrs.  White  was  little 
Clara  Peck,  a  pretty  girl  in  the  Pligh  School, 
whose  rich  widowed  mother  dressed  her  ex- 
quisitely, and  who  was  studying  French,  and 
could  play  the  violin.  But  Mrs.  Apostleman 
was  an  old  woman  now,  and  had  been  playing 
the  game  a  long  time,  and  she  was  glad  to  put 


$8  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

the  sceptre  into  younger  hands.  And  she  could 
have  put  it  into  none  more  competent  than 
those  of  Mrs.  Willard  Wliite. 

Mrs.  White  was  a  handsome,  clever  woman,  of 
perhaps  six-  or  seven-and-thirty.  She  had  been 
married  now  for  seventeen  years,  and  for  all 
that  time,  and  even  before  her  marriage,  she 
had  been  the  most  envied,  the  most  admired, 
and  the  most  copied  woman  in  the  village.  Her 
mother,  an  insipid,  spoiled,  ambitious  little 
woman,  whose  fondest  hope  was  realized  when 
her  dashing  daughter  made  a  financially  brilliant 
match,  had  lost  no  time  in  warning  the  bride 
that  the  agonies  of  motherhood,  and  the  long 
ensuing  slavery,  were  avoidable,  and  Clara  had 
entirely  agreed  with  her  mother's  ideas,  and 
used  to  laughingly  assure  the  few  old  friends 
who  touched  upon  this  delicate  topic,  that  she 
herself  "was  baby  enough  for  Will!"  Robbed 
in  this  way  of  her  natural  estate,  and  robbed  by 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  59 

the  size  of  her  husband's  income  from  the  ex- 
hilarating interest  of  making  financial  ends 
meet,  Mrs.  White,  for  seventeen  years,  had  led 
what  she  honestly  considered  an  enviable  and 
carefree  existence.  She  bought  beautiful  clothes 
for  herself,  and  beautiful  things  for  her  house, 
she  gave  her  husband  and  her  mother  very 
handsome  gifts.  She  was  a  perfect  hostess, 
although  it  must  be  admitted  that  she  never 
extended  the  hospitalities  of  her  handsome  home 
to  anyone  who  did  not  amuse  her,  who  was  not 
''worth  while".  She  ruled  her  servants  well, 
made  a  fine  president  for  the  local  Women's 
Club,  ran  her  own  motor-car  very  skillfully, 
and  played  an  exceptionally  good  game  of 
bridge.  She  was  an  authority  upon  table- 
linens,  fancy  needlework,  fashions  in  dress,  new 
salads,  new  methods  in  serving  the  table. 

Willard  WTiite,  as  perfect  a  type  in  his  own 
way  as  she  was  in  hers,  was  very  proud  of  her, 


6o  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

when  he  thought  of  her  at  all,  which  v/as  really 
much  less  often  than  their  acquaintances  sup- 
posed. He  liked  his  house  to  be  nicely  managed, 
spent  his  money  freely  upon  it,  wanted  his 
friends  handsomely  entertained,  and  his  wine- 
cellar  stocked  with  every  conceivable  variety 
of  liquid  refreshment.  If  Clara  wanted  more 
servants,  let  her  have  them,  if  she  wanted 
corkscrews  by  the  gross,  why,  buy  those,  too. 
Only  let  a  man  feel  that  there  was  a  maid  around 
to  bring  him  a  glass  when  he  came  in  from 
golfing  or  motoring,  and  a  corkscrew  with  the 
glass  I 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  his  club  and  his  office, 
and  above  all,  his  motor-cars,  absorbed  him. 
His  natural  paternal  instinct  had  been  diverted 
toward  these  latter,  and,  quite  without  his 
knowing  it,  his  cars  were  his  nursery.  Willard 
White  had  owned  the  first  electric  car  ever 
seen  in  Santa  Paloma.    Later,  there  had  been 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  6r 

half-a-dozen  machines,  and  he  loved  them  all, 
and  spokfi  of  them  as  separate  entities.  He 
spoke  of  the  runs  they  had  made,  of  the  strains 
they  had  triumphantly  sustained,  and  he  and 
his  chauffeur  held  low-toned  conferences  over 
any  small  breakage,  with  the  same  seriousness 
that  he  might  have  used  had  Willard  Junior — 
supposing  there  to  have  been  such  a  little  per- 
son— developed  croup,  and  made  the  presence 
of  a  physician  necessary.  He  liked  to  glance 
across  his  lawn  at  night  to  the  commodious 
garage,  visible  in  the  moonlight,  and  think  of 
his  treasures,  locked  up,  guarded,  perfect  in 
every  detail,  and  safe. 

He  and  Mrs.  White  always  spoke  of  Santa 
Paloma  as  a  "jay"  town,  and  compared  it,  to 
its  unutterable  disadvantage,  to  other  and 
larger  cities,  but  still,  business  reasons  would 
always  keep  them  there  for  the  greater  part  of 
the  year,  and  they  were  both  glad  to  hear  that 


62  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

a  fabulously  wealthy  widow,  and  a  woman 
prominent  in  every  other  respect  as  well,  had 
come  to  live  in  Santa  Paloma.  Mrs.  White  de- 
termined to  play  her  game  very  carefully  with 
Mrs.  Burgoyne;  there  should  be  no  indecent 
hurry,  there  should  be  no  sudden  overtures  at 
friendship.  "But,  poor  thing!  She  will  cer- 
tainly find  our  house  an  oasis  in  the  desert!" 
Mrs.  White  comfortably  decided,  putting  on 
the  very  handsomest  of  her  afternoon  gowns 
to  go  and  call  formally  at  the  Hall. 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  and  the  little  girls  were  always 
most  cordial  to  visitors.  They  spent  these  first 
days  deep  in  gardening,  great  heaps  of  fragrant 
dying  weeds  about  them,  and  raw  vistas  through 
the  pruned  trees  already  beginning  to  show  the 
gracious  slopes  of  the  land,  and  the  sleepy  Lobos 
down  beneath  the  willows.  The  Carew  children 
and  the  little  Browns  were  often  there,  fasci- 
nated by  the  outdoor  work,  as  children  always 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  63 

are,  and  little  Billy  Valentine  squirmed  daily 
through  his  own  particular  gap  in  the  hedge, 
and  took  his  share  of  the  fun  with  a  deep  and 
silent  happiness.  Billy  gave  Mrs.  Burgo}Tie 
many  a  heartache,  with  his  shock  of  bright,  un- 
brushed  hair,  his  neglected  grimed  little  hands, 
his  boyish  little  face  that  was  washed  daily  ac- 
cording to  his  own  small  lights,  with  surround- 
ing areas  of  neck  and  ears  wholly  overlooked, 
and  his  deep  eyes,  sad  when  he  was  sad,  and 
somehow  infinitely  more  pathetic  when  he  was 
happy.  Sometimes  she  stealthily  supplied 
Billy  v/ith  new  garters,  or  fastened  the  buttons 
on  Ills  blue  overalls,  or  even  gave  him  a  spoonful 
of  "meddy"  out  of  a  big  bottle,  at  the  mere 
sight  of  which  Ellen  shuddered  sympathetically; 
a  dose  which  was  always  followed  by  two 
marshmallows,  out  of  a  tin  box,  by  way  of 
consolation.  But  further  than  this  she  dared 
not  go,  except  in  the  matter  of  mugs  of  milk, 


64  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

gingerbread,  saucer-pies,  and  motherly  kisses 
for  any  bump  or  bruise. 

The  village  women,  coming  up  to  the  Hall,  in 
the  pleasant  summer  afternoons,  were  puzzled 
to  find  the  old  place  almost  unchanged.  \Vliy 
any  woman  in  her  senses  w^anted  to  live  among 
those  early- Victorian  horrors,  the  women  of 
Santa  Paloma  could  not  imagine.  But  Mrs. 
Burgoyne  never  apologized  for  the  old  walnut 
chairs  and  tables,  and  the  old  velvet  carpets, 
and  the  hopelessly  old-fashioned  white  lace 
curtains  and  gilt-framed  mirrors.  Even  Captain 
Holly's  big  clock — *'an  impossibly  hideous 
thing,"  Mrs.  White  called  the  frantic  bronze 
horses  and  the  clinging  tiger,  on  their  onyx 
hillside — was  serenely  ticking,  and  the  pink 
china  vases  were  filled  with  flowers.  And  there 
was  an  air  of  such  homely  comfort,  after  all, 
about  the  big  rooms,  such  a  fragrance  of  flowers, 
and  flood  of  sunny  fresh  air,  that  the  whole 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  65 

effect  was  not  half  as  bad  as  it  might  be  im- 
agined ;  indeed,  when  Mammy  Curry,  the  mag- 
nificent old  negress  who  was  supreme  in  the 
kitchen  and  respected  in  the  nursery  as  well, 
came  in  with  her  stiff  white  apron  and  silver 
tea-tray,  she  seemed  to  fit  into  the  picture,  and 
add  a  completing  touch  to  the  whole. 

Very  simply,  very  unpretentiously,  the  new 
mistress  of  Holly  Hall  entered  upon  her  new 
life.  She  was  a  woman  of  very  quiet  tastes, 
devoted  to  her  little  girls,  her  music,  her  garden 
and  her  books.  With  the  negress,  she  had  one 
other  servant,  a  quiet  little  New  England  girl, 
with  terrified,  childish  eyes,  and  a  passionate 
devotion  to  her  mistress  and  all  that  concerned 
her  mistress.  Fanny  had  in  charge  a  splendid, 
tawny-headed  little  boy  of  three,  who  played 
happily  by  himself,  about  the  kitchen  door,  and 
chased  chickens  and  kittens  with  shrieks  of  de- 
light.   Mrs.  Burgoyne  spoke  of  him  as  "Fanny's 


66  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

little  brother,"  and  if  the  two  had  a  history  of 
any  sort,  it  was  one  at  which  she  never  hinted. 
She  met  an  embarrassing  question  with  a  readi- 
ness which  rather  amused  Mrs.  Brown,  on  a  day 
when  the  two  younger  ladies  were  having  tea 
with  Mrs.  Apostleman,  and  the  conversation 
turned  to  the  subject  of  maids. 

" — but  if  your  little  girl  Fanny  has  had  her 
lesson,  you'll  have  no  trouble  keepin'  her,"  said 
Mrs.  Apostleman. 

"Oh,  I  hope  I  shall  keep  Fanny,"  said  Mrs. 
Burgoyne,  "she  comes  of  such  nice  people,  and 
she's  such  a  sweet,  good  girl." 

"Why,  Lord  save  us!"  said  the  old  lady, 
repentantly,  "and  I  was  almost  ready  to  believe 
the  child  was  hers!" 

"If  Peter  was  hers,  she  couldn't  be  fonder  of 
him!"  Mrs.  Burgoyne  said  mildly,  and  Mrs. 
Brown  choked  on  her  tea,  and  had  to  wipe  her 
eyes. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  67 

In  the  matter  of  Fanny,  and  in  a  dozen  other 
small  matters,  the  independence  of  the  great 
lady  was  not  slow  in  showing  itself  in  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne.  Santa  Paloma  might  be  annoyed  at  her, 
and  puzzled  by  her,  but  it  had  perforce  to  accept 
her  as  she  stood,  or  ignore  her,  and  she  was 
obviously  not  a  person  to  ignore.  She  declined 
all  invitations  for  daytime  festivities;  she  was 
"always  busy  in  the  daytime,"  she  said.  No 
cards,  no  luncheons,  no  tea-parties  could  lure 
her  away  from  the  Hall,  although,  if  she  and 
the  small  girls  walked  in  for  mail  or  were 
down  in  the  village  for  any  other  reason, 
they  were  very  apt  to  stop  somewhere  for 
a  chat  on  their  way  home.  But  the  children 
were  allowed  to  go  nowhere  alone,  and  not 
the  smartest  of  children's  parties  could  boast 
of  the  presence  of  Joanna  and  Ellen  Bur- 
goyne. 

Santa  Paloma  children  were  much  given  to 


68  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

parties,  or  rather  their  parents  were;  and  every 
separate  party  was  a  separate  great  event.  The 
Httle  girls  wore  exquisite  hand-made  garments, 
silken  hose  and  white  shoes.  Professional 
entertainers,  in  fashionably  darkened  rooms, 
kept  the  little  people  amused,  and  professional 
caterers  supplied  the  supper  they  ate,  or  per- 
haps the  affair  took  the  shape  of  a  box-party 
for  a  matinee,  and  a  supper  at  the  town's  one 
really  pretty  tea-room  followed.  These  affairs 
were  duly  chronicled  in  the  daily  and  weekly 
papers,  and  perhaps  more  than  one  matron 
would  have  liked  the  distinction  of  having 
Mrs.  Burgoyne's  little  daughters  listed  among 
her  own  child's  guests.  Joanna  and  Ellen  were 
pretty  children,  in  a  well-groomed,  bright-eyed 
sort  of  way,  and  would  have  been  popular  even 
without  the  added  distinction  of  their  ready 
French  and  German  and  Italian,  their  charming 
manners,  their  naive  references  to  other  coun- 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  69 

tries  and  peoples,  and  their  beautiful  and  dis- 
tinguished mother. 

But  in  answer  to  all  invitations,  there  came 
only  polite,  stilted  little  letters  of  regret,  in 
the  children's  round  script.  ''Mother  would 
d'rather  we  shouldn't  go  to  a  sin-gul  party  until 
we  are  young  ladies!"  Ellen  would  say  cheer- 
fully, if  cross-examined  on  the  subject,  leaving 
it  to  the  more  tactful  Joanna  to  add,  "But 
Mother  thanks  yon  just  as  much."  They  were 
always  close  to  their  mother  when  it  was  pos- 
sible, and  she  only  banished  them  from  her  side 
when  the  conversation  grew  undeniably  too  old 
in  tone  for  Joanna  and  Ellen,  and  then  liked  to 
keep  them  in  sight,  have  them  come  in  with  the 
tea-tray,  or  wave  to  her  occasionally  from  the 
river  bank. 

"We've  been  wondering  what  you  would  do 
with  this  magnificent  drawing-room,"  said 
Mrs.  White,  on  her  first  visit.     "The  house 


70  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

■t 
ought,  to  take  a  colonial  treatment  wonder- 
fully— there's  a  remarkable  man  in  San  Fran- 
cisco who  simply  made  our  house  over  for  us 
last  year!" 

"It  must  have  been  a  fearful  upheaval,"  said 
Mrs.  Burgoyne,  sympathetically. 

"Oh,  we  went  away!  Mr.  White  and  I  went 
cast,  and  when  we  came  back  it  was  all  done." 

"Well,  fortunately,"  said  the  mistress  of 
Holly  Hall  cheerfully,  as  she  sugared  Mrs. 
Apostleman's  cup  of  tea,  "fortunately  all  these 
things  of  Mrs.  Holly's  were  in  splendid  condi- 
tion, except  for  a  little  cleaning  and  polishing. 
They  used  to  make  things  so  much  more  solid, 
don't  you  think  so?  Why,  there  are  years  of 
wear  left  in  these  carpets,  and  the  chairs  and 
tables  are  like  rocks !  Captain  Holly  apparently 
got  the  very  best  of  everything  when  he  fur- 
nished this  place,  and  I  reap  the  benefit.  It's 
so  nice  to  feel  that  one  needn't  buy  a  chair  or  a 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  71 

bed  for  ten  years  or  more,  if  one  doesn't  want 
to!" 

"Dear,  sweet  people,  the  HoUys,"  said  Mrs. 
White,  pleasantly,  utterly  at  a  loss.  Did 
people  of  the  nicer  class  speak  of  furniture  as  if 
it  were  made  merely  to  be  useful?  "But  what 
a  distinct  period  these  things  belong  to,  don't 
they?"  she  asked,  feeling  her  way.  "So — so 
solid!" 

"Yes,  in  a  way  it  was  an  ugly  period,"  said 
Mrs.  Burgoyne,  placidly.  "But  very  com- 
fortable, fortunately.  Fancy  if  he  had  selected 
Louis  Quinze  chairs,  for  example!" 

Mrs.  White  gave  her  a  puzzled  look,  and 
smiled. 

"Come  now,  Mrs.  Burgoyne,"  said  she, 
good-naturedly,  "Confess  that  you  are  going 
to  give  us  all  a  surprise  some  day,  and  change 
all  this.  One  sees,"  said  Mrs.  White,  elegantly, 
"  such  lovely  effects  in  New  York  " 


72  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

"In  those  upper  Fifth  Avenue  shops — ah, 
but  don't  you  see  lovely  things!"  the  other 
woman  assented  warmly.  "Of  course,  one 
could  be  always  changing,"  she  went  on.  "But 
I  like  associations  with  things — and  changing 
takes  so  much  time !  Some  day  we  may  think  all 
this  quite  pretty,"  she  finished,  with  a  contented 
glance  at  the  comfortable  ugliness  of  the  draw- 
ing-room. 

"Oh,  do  you  suppose  we  shall  really!"  Mrs. 
White  gave  a  Httle  incredulous  laugh.  She  was 
going  pretty  far,  and  she  knew  it,  but  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  she  was  entirely  unable  to  be- 
lieve that  there  was  a  woman  in  the  world  who 
could  afford  to  have  what  was  fashionable  and 
expensive  in  household  furnishings  or  apparel, 
and  who  deliberately  preferred  not  to  have  it. 
That  her  own  pretty  things  were  no  sooner 
established  than  they  began  to  lose  their  charm 
for  her,  never  occurred  to  Mrs.  White:  she  was 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGO\T^E  73 

a  woman  of  conventional  tj-pe,  perfectly  satis- 
fied to  spend  her  whole  life  in  acquiring  things 
essentially  invaluable,  and  to  use  a  naturally 
shrewd  and  quick  intelligence  in  copying  fash- 
ions of  all  sorts,  small  and  large,  as  fast  as  ad- 
vanced merchants  and  magazines  presented 
them  to  her.  She  was  one  of  the  great  army  of 
women  who  help  to  send  the  sale  of  an  immoral 
book  well  up  into  the  hundreds  of  thousands; 
she  liked  to  spend  long  afternoons  with  a  box  of 
chocolates  and  a  book  unfit  for  the  touch  of  any 
woman;  a  book  that  she  would  review  for  the 
benefit  of  her  friends  later,  with  a  shocked 
wonder  that  "they  dare  print  such  things!" 
She  liked  to  tell  a  man's  story,  and  the  other 
women  could  not  but  laugh  at  her,  for  she  was 
undeniably  good  company,  and  nobody  ever 
questioned  the  taste  of  anything  she  ever  said 
or  did.  She  was  a  famous  gossip,  for  like  all 
women,  she  found  the  private  affairs  of  other 


74  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

people  full  of  fascination,  and,  having  no  legiti- 
mate occupation,  she  was  always  at  liberty  to 
discuss  them. 

Yet  Mrs.  White  was  not  at  all  an  unusual 
woman,  and,  like  her  associates,  she  tacitly 
assumed  herself  to  be  the  very  flower  of  Amer- 
ican womanhood.  She  quoted  her  distinguished 
relatives  on  all  occasions,  the  White  family,  in 
all  its  ramifications,  supplied  the  correct  prec- 
edent for  all  the  w^orld;  there  was  no  social 
emergency  to  which  some  cousin  or  aunt  of 
Mrs.  WTiite's  had  not  been  more  than  equal. 
Having  no  children  of  her  own,  she  still  could 
silence  and  shame  many  a  good  mother  with 
references  to  Cousin  Ethel  Langstroth's  "kid- 
dies", or  to  Aunt  Grace  Thurston's  wonderful 
governess. 

Personally,  Mrs.  White  vaguely  felt  that 
there  was  something  innately  indecent  about 
children  anyway,  the  smaller  they  were  the  less 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  75 

mentionable  she  found  them.  The  little  emer- 
gencies, of  nose-bleeds  and  torn  garments  and 
spilled  porridge,  that  were  constantly  arising  in 
the  neighborhood  of  children,  made  her  gen- 
uinely sick  and  faint.  And  she  had  so  humor- 
ous and  so  assured  an  air  of  saying  "Disgust- 
ing!" or  "Disgraceful!"  when  the  family  of 
some  other  woman  began  to  present  itself  with 
reasonable  promptness,  that  other  women  found 
themselves  laughing  and  saying  "Disgusting!" 
too. 

Mrs.  Burgoyne,  like  Mrs.  White,  was  a  born 
leader.  Whether  she  made  any  particular 
effort  to  influence  her  neighbors  or  not,  they 
could  not  but  feel  the  difference  in  her  attitude 
toward  all  the  various  tangible  things  that  make 
a  woman's  Ufe.  She  was  essentially  maternal, 
wanted  to  mother  all  the  Httle  living  and  grow- 
ing things  in  the  world,  wanted  to  be  with 
children,  and  talk  of  them  and  study  them. 


76  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

And  she  was  simple  and  honest  in  her  tastes, 
and  entirely  without  affectation  in  her  manner, 
and  she  was  too  great  a  lady  to  be  either 
laughed  at  or  ignored.  So  Santa  Paloma  began 
to  ask  itself  why  she  did  this  or  that,  and  finding 
her  ways  all  made  for  economy  and  comfort  and 
simplicity,  almost  unconsciously  copied  them. 


CHAPTER  VI 

When  Mrs.  Apostleman  invited  several  of  her 
friends  to  a  formal  dinner  given  especially  for 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  everyone  realized  that  the  new- 
comer was  accepted,  and  the  event  was  one  of 
several  in  which  the  women  of  Santa  Paloma 
tried  with  more  than  ordinary  eagerness  to  out- 
shine each  other.  Mrs.  Apostleman  herself 
never  entered  into  competition  with  the  younger 
matrons,  nor  did  they  expect  it  of  her.  She 
gave  heavy,  rich,  old-fashioned  dinners  in  her 
own  way,  in  which  her  servants  were  perfectly 
trained.  It  was  a  standing  joke  among  her 
friends  that  they  always  ate  too  much  at  Mrs. 
Apostleman's  house,  there  were  always  seven 
or  eight  substantial  courses,  and  she  liked  to 

have  the  plates  come  back  for  more  lobster 

77 


78  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

salad  or  roast  turkey.  In  this,  as  in  all  things, 
she  was  a  law  unto  herself. 

But  for  the  other  women,  Mrs.  White  set  the 
pace,  and  difficult  to  keep  they  often  found  it. 
But  they  never  questioned  it.  They  admired 
(he  richer  woman's  perfect  house-furnishing, 
and  struggled  blindly  to  accumulate  the  same 
number  and  variety  of  napkins  and  fingerbowls, 
ramekins  and  glasses  and  candlesticks  and 
special  forks  and  special  knives.  The  first  of 
the  month  with  its  bills,  became  a  horror  to 
them,  and  they  were  continually  promising 
thtir  husbands,  in  all  good  faith,  that  expenses 
should  positively  be  cut  dov/n. 

But  what  use  were  good  resolves;  when  one 
might  find,  the  very  next  day,  that  there  were 
no  more  cherries  for  the  grapefruit,  that  one 
had  not  a  pair  of  presentable  white  gloves  for 
the  club,  or  that  the  motor-picnic  that  the 
children  were  planning  was  to  cost  them  five 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  79 

dollars  apiece?  To  serve  grapefruit  without 
cherries,  to  wear  colored  gloves,  or  no  gloves  at 
all  to  the  club,  and  to  substitute  some  inexpen- 
sive pleasure  for  the  ride  was  a  course  that 
never  occurred  to  Mrs.  Carew,  that  never 
occurred  to  any  of  her  friends.  Mrs.  Carew 
might  have  a  very  vague  idea  of  her  daughter's 
spiritual  needs,  she  might  be  an  entire  stranger 
to  the  delicately  adjusted  and  exquisitely  sus- 
ceptible entity  that  was  the  real  Jeanette,  but 
she  would  have  gone  hungry  rather  than  have 
Jeanette  unable  to  wear  white  shoes  to  Sunday 
School,  rather  than  tie  Jeanette's  braids  with 
ribbons  that  were  not  stiff  and  new.  She  was  so 
entirely  absorbed  in  pursuit  of  the  "correct 
thing,"  so  anxious  to  read  what  was  "being 
read,"  to  own  what  was  "right",  that  she  never 
stopped  to  seriously  consider  her  own  or  her 
daughter's  place  in  the  universe.  She  was 
glad,  of  course  when  the  children  "liked  their 


8o  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

teacher,"  just  as  she  had  been  glad  years  before 
when  they  "Hked  their  nurse."  The  reasons 
for  such  hkings  or  disUkings  she  never  inves- 
tigated; she  had  taken  care  of  the  children  her- 
self during  the  nurse's  regular  days  "off",  but 
she  always  regarded  these  occasions  as  so  much 
lost  time.  Mrs.  Carew  kept  her  children,  as  she 
kept  her  house,  well-groomed,  and  she  gave 
about  as  much  thought  to  the  spiritual  needs  of 
the  one  as  the  other.  She  had  been  brought  up 
to  believe  that  the  best  things  in  life  are  to  be 
had  for  money,  and  that  earthly  happiness  or 
unhappiness  falls  in  exact  ratio  with  the  pos- 
session or  non-possession  of  money.  She  met 
the  growing  demands  of  her  family  as  well  as 
she  could,  and  practised  all  sorts  of  harassing 
private  economies  so  that,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  the  family  might  seem  to  be  spending  a 
great  deal  more  money  than  was  actually  the 
case.     Mrs.    Carew's   was   not   an   analytical 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  8 1 

mind,  but  sometimes  she  found  herself  gen- 
uinely puzzled  by  the  financial  state  of  af- 
fairs. 

"I  don't  know  where  the  money  goes  to!"  she 
said,  in  a  confidential  moment,  to  Mrs.  Lloyd. 
They  had  met  in  the  market,  where  Mrs.  Carew 
was  consulting  a  long  list  of  necessary  groceries. 

"Oh,  don't  speak  of  it!"  said  Mrs.  Lloyd, 
feelingly.  "That's  so,  your  dinner  is  tomorrow 
night,  isn't  it?"  she  added  with  interest.  "Are 
you  going  to  have  Lizzie?" 

"Oh,  dear  me,  yes!  For  eight,  you  know. 
Shan't  you  have  her?"  For  Mrs.  Lloyd's  turn 
to  entertain  Mrs.  Burgoyne  followed  Mrs. 
Carew 's  by  only  a  few  days. 

"Lizzie  and  her  mother,  too,"  said  the  other 
woman.  "I  don't  know  what's  the  matter  with 
maids  in  these  days,"  she  went  on,  "they 
simply  can't  do  things,  as  my  mother's  maids 
used  to,  for  example.     Now  the  four  of  them 


82  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

will  be  working  all  day  over  Thursday's  dinner, 
and,  dear  me!  it's  a  simple  enough  dinner." 

"Well,  you  have  to  serve  so  much  with  a 
dinner,  nowadays,"  Mrs.  Carew  said,  in  a 
mildly  martyred  tone.  "Crackers  and  every- 
thing else  with  oysters — I'm  going  to  have 
cucumber  sandwiches  with  the  soup " 

"Delicious!"  said  Mrs.  Lloyd. 

"'Cucumbers,  olives,  salted  nuts,  currant 
jelly'",  Mrs.  Carew  was  reading  her  list, 
"'ginger  chutney,  saltines,  bar-le-duc,  cream 
cheese',  those  are  for  the  salad,  you  know, 
'dinner  rolls,  sandwich  bread,  fancy  cakes, 
Maraschino  cherries,  maple  sugar,'  that's  to  go 
hot  on  the  ice,  I'm  going  to  serve  it  in  melons, 
and  'candy' — just  pink  and  green  wafers,  I 
think.  All  that  before  it  comes  to  the  actual 
dinner  at  all,  and  it's  all  so  fussy!" 

"Don't  say  one  word!"  said  Mrs.  Lloyd, 
sympathetically.     "But  it  sounds  dee-Hcious!" 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  83 

she  added  consolingly,  and  little  Mrs.  Carew 
went  contentedly  home  to  a  hot  and  furious 
session  in  her  kitchen;  hours  of  baking,  boiling 
and  frying,  chopping  and  whipping  and  frosting, 
creaming  and  seasoning,  freezing  and  straining. 

"I  don't  mind  the  work,  if  only  everything 
goes  right!"  Mrs.  Carew  would  say  gallantly 
to  herself,  and  it  must  be  said  to  her  credit  that 
usually  everything  did  "go  right"  at  her  house, 
although  even  the  maids  in  the  kitchen,  hero- 
ically attacking  pyramids  of  sticky  plates,  were 
not  so  tired  as  she  was,  when  the  dinner  was 
well  over. 

But  there  was  a  certain  stimulus  in  the  mere 
thought  of  entertaining  Mrs,  Burgoyne,  and 
there  was  the  exhilarating  consciousness  that 
one  of  these  days  she  would  entertain  in  turn; 
so  the  Santa  Paloma  housewives  exerted  them- 
selves to  the  utmost  of  their  endurance,  and 
one  delightful  dinner  party  followed  another. 


84  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

But  a  dispassionate  onlooker  from  another 
planet  might  have  found  it  curious  to  notice,  in 
contrast  to  this  uniformity,  that  no  two  women 
dressed  alike  on  these  occasions,  and  no  woman 
who  could  help  it  wore  the  same  gown  twice. 
Mrs.  Brown  and  Mrs.  Carew,  to  be  sure,  wore 
their  "little  old  silks"  more  than  once,  but  each 
was  secretly  consoled  by  the  thought  that  a 
really  "smart"  new  gown  awaited  Mrs.  White's 
dinner;  which  was  naturally  the  climax  of  all 
the  affairs.  Only  the  wearers  and  their  dress- 
makers knew  what  hours  had  been  spent  upon 
these  costumes,  what  discouraged  debates  at- 
tended their  making,  what  muscular  agonies 
their  fitting.  Only  they  could  have  estimated, 
and  they  never  did  estimate — the  time  lost 
over  pattern  books,  the  nervous  strain  of  plac- 
ing this  bit  of  spangled  net  or  that  square  inch 
of  lace,  the  hurried  trips  downtown  for  samples 
and  linings,  for  fringes  and  embroideries  and 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  85 

braids  and  ribbons.  The  gown  that  she  wore 
to  her  own  dinner,  Mrs.  White  had  had  fitted 
in  the  Maison  Dernier  Mot,  in  Paris; — it  was 
an  enchanting  frock  of  embroidered  white 
illusion,  over  pink  illusion,  over  black  illusion, 
under  a  short  heavy  tunic  of  silver  spangles  and 
threads.  The  yoke  was  of  wonderful  old  lace, 
and  there  was  a  girdle  of  heavy  pink  cords,  and 
silver  clasps,  to  match  the  aigrette  that  was 
held  by  pink  and  silver  cords  in  Mrs.  White's 
beautifully  arranged  hair. 

Mrs.  Burgoyne's  gowns,  or  rather  gown,  for 
she  wore  exactly  the  same  costume  to  every 
dinner,  could  hardly  have  been  more  startling 
than  Santa  Paloma  found  it,  had  it  gone  to  any 
unbecoming  extreme.  Yet  it  was  the  simplest 
of  black  summer  silks,  soft  and  full  in  the  skirt, 
short-sleeved,  and  with  a  touch  of  lace  at  the 
square-cut  neck.  She  arranged  her  hair  in  a 
becoming  loose  knot,  and  somehow  managed  to ' 


86  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

look  noticeably  lovely  and  distinguished,  in  the 
gay  assemblies.  To  brighten  the  black  gown 
she  wore  a  rope  of  pearls,  looped  twice  about  her 
white  throat,  and  hanging  far  below  her  waist; 
pearls,  as  ]\Irs.  Adams  remarked  in  discourage- 
ment later,  that  "just  made  you  feel  what's  the 
use!  She  could  w^ear  a  kitchen  apron  with  those 
pearls  if  she  wanted  to,  everyone  would  know 
she  could  afford  cloth  of  gold  and  ermine!" 

With  this  erratic  and  inexpHcable  simplicity 
of  dress  she  combined  the  finish  of  manner,  the 
poise,  the  ready  sympathies  of  a  truly  cultivated 
and  intelligent  woman.  She  could  talk,  not 
only  of  her  own  personal  experiences,  but  of  the 
political,  and  literary,  and  scientific  movements 
of  the  day.  Certain  proposed  state  legislation 
happened  to  be  interesting  the  men  of  Santa 
Paloma  at  this  time,  and  she  seemed  to  under- 
stand it,  and  spoke  readily  of  it. 

"But,  George,"  said  Mrs.  Carew,  walking 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  87 

home  in  the  summer  night,  after  the  Adams 
dinner,  "you  have  often  said  you  hated  women 
to  talk  about  things  they  didn't  under- 
stand." 

"But  she  does  understand,  dearie.  That's 
just  the  point." 

"Yes;  but  you  differed  mth  her,  George!" 

"Well,  but  that's  different,  Jen.  She  knew 
what  she  was  talking  about." 

"I  suppose  she  has  friends  in  V/ashington  who 
keep  her  informed,"  said  Mrs.  Carev/,  a  Httle 
discontentedly,  after  a  silence.  And  there  was 
another  pause  before  she  said,  "Where  do  men 
get  their  information,  George?" 

"Papers,  dear.  And  talking,  I  suppose. 
They're  interested,  you  know." 

"Yes,  but—"  Httle  Mrs.  Carew  burst  out 
resentfully,  "I  never  can  make  head  or  tail  of 
the  papers!  They  say  'Aldrich  Resigns,'  or 
'Heavy    Blow    to    Interests/    or    'Tammany 


88  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

Scores  Triumph,'  and  /  don't  know  what  it's 
about ! ' 

George  Carew's  big  laugh  rang  out  in  the 
night,  and  he  put  his  arm  about  her,  and  said, 
"You're  great,  Jen!" 

Shortly  after  Mrs.  White's  dinner  a  certain 
distinguished  old  artist  from  New  York,  and 
his  son,  came  to  stay  a  night  or  two  at  Holly 
Hall,  on  their  way  home  from  the  Orient,  and 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  took  this  occasion  to  invite  a 
score  of  her  new  friends  to  two  small  dinners, 
planned  for  the  two  nights  of  the  great  Karl 
von  Praag's  stay  in  Santa  Paloma. 

"I  don't  see  how  she's  going  to  handle  two 
dinners  for  ten  people  each,  with  just  that 
colored  cook  of  hers  and  one  waitress,"  said 
Mrs.  Willard  White,  late  one  evening,  when 
Mr.  White  was  finishing  a  book  and  a  cigar  in 
their  handsome  bedroom,  and  she  was  at  her 
dressing-table. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  89 

"Caterers,"  submitted  Mr.  Wliite,  turning  a 
page. 

"I  suppose  so,"  his  wife  agreed.  After  a 
thoughtful  silence  she  added,  "Sue  Adams  says 
that  she  supposes  that  when  a  w^oman  has  as 
much  money  as  that  she  loses  all  interest  in 
spending  it!  Personally,  I  don't  see  how  she 
can  entertain  a  great  big  man  like  Von  Praag  in 
that  old-fashioned  house.  She  never  seems  to 
think  of  it  at  all,  she  never  apologizes  for  it,  and 
she  talks  as  if  nobody  ever  bought  new  things 
until  the  old  were  worn  out!" 

Her  eyes  went  about  her  ov.n  big  bedroom  as 
she  spoke.  Nothing  old-fashioned  here!  Even 
eighteen  years  ago,  when  the  Whites  were 
married,  their  home  had  been  furnished  in  a 
manner  to  make  the  Holly  Hall  of  to-day  look 
out  of  date.  Mrs.  White  shuddered  now  at  the 
mere  memory  of  what  she  as  a  bride  had  thought 
so  beautiful:  the  pale  green  carpet,  the  green 


90  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

satin  curtains,  the  white-and-gold  chairs  and 
tables  and  bed,  the  easels,  the  gilded  frames! 
Seven  or  eight  years  later  she  had  changed  all 
this  for  a  heavy  brass  bedstead,  and  dark  rugs 
on  a  polished  floor,  and  bird's-eye  maple  chests 
and  chairs,  and  all  feminine  Santa  Paloma 
talked  of  the  Whites'  new  things.  Six  or  seven 
years  after  that  again,  two  mahogany  beds  re- 
placed the  brass  one,  and  heavy  mahogany 
bureaus  with  glass  knobs  had  their  day,  with 
plain  net  curtains  and  old-fashioned  woven 
rugs.  But  all  these  were  in  the  guest-rooms  now, 
and  in  her  own  bedroom  Mrs.  White  had  a 
complete  set  of  Circassian  walnut,  heavily 
carved,  and  ornamented  with  cunningly  inset 
panels  of  rattan.  On  the  beds  were  covers  of 
Oriental  cottons,  and  the  window-curtains 
showed  the  same  elementary  designs  in  pinks 
and  blues. 

"She  dresses  very  prettily,  I  thought,"  ob- 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  91 

served  Mr.  White,  apropos  of  his  wife's  last 
remark. 

"Dresses!"  echoed  his  wife.  "She  dresses  as 
your  mother  might!" 

"Very  pretty,  very  pretty!"  said  the  man 
absently,  over  his  book. 

There  was  a  silence.    Then: 

"That  just  shows  how  much  men  notice," 
Mrs.  White  confided  to  her  ivory-backed  brush. 
" I  believe  they  like  women  to  look  like  frumps! " 


CHAPTER  Vn 

These  were  busy  days  in  the  once  quiet  and 

sleepy  office  of  the  Santa  Paloma  Morning  Mail. 

A  wave  of  energy  and  vigor  sv/ept  over  the 

place,  affecting  everybody  from  the  fat,  spoiled 

office  cat,  who  found  himself  pushed  out  of 

chairs,  and  bounced  off  of  folded  coats  with 

small  courtesy,  to  the  new  editor-manager  and 

the  lady  whose  timely  investment  had  brought 

this  pleasant  change  about.     Old  Kelly,  the 

proof-reader,    night    clerk.    Associated    Press 

m.anager,   and   assistant   editor,    shouted   and 

swore  with  a  vim  unknown  of  late  years;  Miss 

Watson,  who  "covered"  social  events,  clubs, 

public    dinners,    "dramatic,"    and    "hotels," 

cleaned  out  her  desk,  and  took  her  fancy-work 

home,  and  "Fergy,"  a  freckled  youth  who  de- 

92 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  93 

lighted  in  calling  himself  a  "cub,"  although  he 
did  little  more  than  run  errands  and  carry  copy 
to  the  press-room,  might  even  be  seen  batting 
madly  at  an  unused  typewriter  when  actual 
duties  failed,  so  inspiring  was  the  new  atmos- 
phere. 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  had  a  desk  and  a  corner  of  her 
own,  where  her  trim  figure  might  be  seen  daily 
for  an  hour  or  two,  from  ten  o'clock  until  the 
small  girls  came  in  to  pick  her  up  on  their  way 
home  from  school  for  luncheon.  Barry  found 
her  brimming  with  ideas.  She  instituted  the 
"Women's  Page,"  the  old  familiar  page  of 
answered  questions,  and  formulas  for  ginger- 
bread, and  brief  romances,  and  scraps  of  poetry, 
and  she  offered  through  its  columns  a  weekly 
cash  prize  for  contributions  on  household 
topics.  An  exquisite  doll  appeared  in  the 
window  of  the  Mail  office,  a  doll  with  a  flower- 
wreathed  hat,  and  a  ruffled  dress,  and  a  little 


94  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

parasol  to  match  the  dress,  and  loitering  little 
girls,  drawn  from  all  over  the  village  to  study 
this  dream  of  beauty,  learned  that  they  had 
only  to  enter  a  loaf  of  bread  of  their  own  making 
in  the  Mail  contest,  to  stand  a  chance  of  carry- 
ing the  little  lady  home.  Beside  the  doll  stood 
a  rifle,  no  toy,  but  a  genuine  twenty-two  Marlin, 
for  the  boy  whose  plans  for  a  vegetable  garden 
seemed  the  best  and  most  practical.  Mrs. 
Burgoyne  herself  talked  to  the  children  when 
they  came  shyly  in  to  investigate.  ''She  seems 
to  want  to  know  every  child  in  the  county,  the 
darling!"  said  Miss  Watson  to  Fergy. 

The  Valentines,  father  and  son,  came  into 
the  Mail  office  one  warm  June  morning,  to  find 
the  editor  of  the  ''Women's  Page"  busy  at  her 
desk,  with  the  sunlight  lying  in  a  bright  bar 
across  her  uncovered  hair,  and  a  vista  of  waving 
green  boughs  showing  through  the  open  window 
behind  her. 


(( 


IC 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  95 

"What  are  you  two  doing  here  at  this  hour?" 
said  Sidney,  laying  down  her  pen  and  leaning 
back  in  her  chair  as  if  glad  of  a  moment's  rest. 

Why,  Billy!"  she  added  in  admiring  tones, 
let  me  see  you !  How  very,  very  nice  you  look ! " 

For  the  little  fellow  was  dressed  in  a  new 
sailor  suit  that  was  a  full  size  too  large  for  him, 
his  wild  mop  had  been  cut  far  too  close,  and  a 
large  new  hat  and  new  shoes  were  much  in 
evidence. 

"D'you  think  he  looks  all  right?"  said  Bariy 
with  an  anxious  wistfulness  that  went  straight 
to  her  heart.  "He  looks  better,  doesn't  he? 
I've  been  fixing  him  up." 

"And  free  sailor  waists,  and  stockings,  and 
nighties,"  supplemented  Billy,  also  anxious  for 
her  approval. 

"He  looks  lovelyl"  said  Sidney,  enthusiastic- 
ally, even  while  she  was  mentally  raising  the 
collar  of  his  waist,  and  taking  an  inch  or  two  off 


96  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

the  trousers.  She  lifted  the  child  up  to  sit  on 
his  father's  desk,  and  kissed  the  top  of  his  httle 
cropped  head. 

"We  may  not  express  ourselves  very  flu- 
ently," said  Barry,  who  was  seated  in  his  own 
revolving  chair  and  busily  opening  and  shutting 
the  drawers  of  his  desk,  "but  we  appreciate  the 
interest  beautiful  ladies  take  in  our  manners  and 
morals,  and  the  new  tooth-brushes  they  buy 


us " 


(C 


My  dear!"  protested  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  be- 
tween laughter  and  tears,  "Ellen  used  his  old 
one  up,  cleaning  out  their  paint-boxes!"  And 
she  put  her  warm  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and 
said,  "Don't  be  a  goose,  Barry!"  as  unself- 
consciously as  a  sister  might.  "Where  are  you 
two  boys  going,  Billy?"  she  asked,  going  back 
to  her  own  desk. 

'Cool,"  Billy  said. 

'He's  going  over  to  the  kindergarten.    I've 


a  J/ 


<(- 


L> 


SHE   PUT    HER   WARM    HAND   OX    HIS    SHOULDER,   AND    SAID, 


"don't    be    a    goose,    BARRY. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOl^NE  97 

got  some  work  I  ought  to  j5nish  here/'  Barry 
supplemented.  "I'll  take  you  across  the  street, 
Infant.    I'll  be  right  back,  Sidney." 

"But,  Barry,  why  are  you  working  now?" 
asked  the  lady  a  few  minutes  later  when  he 
took  his  place  at  his  desk. 

"Oh,  don't  you  worry,"  he  answered,  smiling; 
"I  love  it.  The  thought  of  old  Rogers'  face 
when  he  opens  his  paper  every  morning  does  m.e 
good.  I'm  writing  this  appeal  for  the  new 
reservoir  now,  and  I've  got  to  play  up  the 
Flower  Festival." 

"I'm  not  interested  in  the  Flower  Festival," 
said  Mrs.  Burgoyne  good-naturedly,  "and  the 
minute  it's  over  I'm  going  to  start  a  crusade 
for  a  girls'  clubhouse  in  Old  Paloma.  Condi- 
tions over  there  for  the  girls  are  something 
hideous.  But  I  suppose  v/e'll  have  to  go  on  Math 
the  Festival  for  the  present.  It's  a  great  occa- 
sion, I  suppose?' 


)" 


98  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

"Oh,  tremendous!  The  Governor's  coming, 
and  thousands  of  visitors  always  pour  into  town. 
We'll  have  nearly  a  hundred  carriages  in  the 
parade,  simply  covered  with  flowers,  you  know . 
It's  lovely!  You  wait  until  things  get  fairl) 
started!" 

''That'll  be  Fourth  of  July,"  Sidney  said 
thoughtfully,  turning  back  to  her  exchanges, 
"I'll  begin  my  clubhouse  crusade  on  the  fifth!" 
she  added  firmly. 

For  a  long  time  there  was  silence  in  the 
office,  except  for  the  rusthng  of  paper  and  the 
scratch  of  pens.  From  the  sunny  world  out-of- 
doors  came  a  pleasant  blending  of  many  noises, 
passing  wagons,  the  low  talk  of  chickens,  the 
slamming  of  gates,  and  now  and  then  the  not 
unmusical  note  of  a  fish-horn.  Footsteps  and 
laughing  voices  went  by,  and  died  into  silence. 
The  clock  from  Town  Hall  Square  struck 
eleven  slowly. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  99 

"This  is  darned  pleasant,"  said  Barry  pres- 
ently, over  his  work. 

"Isn't  it?"  said  the  editor  of  the  "Women's 
Page,"  and  again  there  was  silence. 

After  a  while  Barry  said  "Finished!"  with  a 
great  breath,  and,  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
wheeled  about  to  find  the  lady  quietly  watching 
him. 

"Barry,  are  you  working  too  hard?"  said  she, 
quite  unembarrassed. 

"Am  I?  Lord,  no!  I  wish  the  days  were 
twice  as  long.  I" — Barry  rumpled  his  thick 
hair  with  a  gesture  that  was  familiar  to  Sidney 
now — "I  guess  work  agrees  with  me.  By 
George,  I  hate  to  eat,  and  I,  hate  to  sleep;  I 
want  to  be  down  here  all  the  time,  or  else 
rustling  up  subscriptions  and  'ads.'" 

"And  I  thought  you  were  lazy,"  said  Sidney, 
finding  herself,  for  the  first  time  in  their  friend- 
ship, curiously  inclined  to  keep  the  conversation 


lOO  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

personal,  this  warm  June  morning.  It  was  a 
thing  extremely  difficult  to  do,  Vv-ith  Barry. 
"You  certainly  gave  me  that  impression,"  she 
said. 

"Yes;  but  that  was  two  months  ago,"  said 
Barry,  off  guard.  A  second  later  he  changed 
the  topic  abruptly  by  asking,  "Did  your  roses 
come?" 

"All  of  them,"  answered  Sidney  pleasantly. 
And  vaguely  conscious  of  mischief  in  the  air, 
but  led  on  by  some  inexplicable  whim,  she  pur- 
sued, "Do  you  mean  that  it  makes  such  a  dif- 
ference to  you,  Rogers  being  gone?  " 

Barry  trimmed  the  four  sides  of  a  clipping 
with  four  clips  of  his  shears. 

"Exactly,"  said  he  briefly.  He  banged  a 
drawer  shut,  closed  a  book  and  laid  it  aside,  and 
stuck  the  brush  into  his  glue-pot.  "Getting 
enough  of  dinner  parties?"  he  asked  then, 
cheerfully. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  loi 

"Too  much,"  said  Sidney,  wondering  why- 
she  felt  like  a  reprimanded  child.  "And  that 
reminds  me:  I  am  giving  two  dinners  for  the 
Von  Praags,  you  know.  I  can't  manage  ever>^- 
body  at  once;  I  hate  more  than  ten  people  at  a 
dinner.    And  you  are  asked  to  the  first." 

"I  don't  go  much  to  dinners,"  Barry  said. 

"I  know  you  don't;  but  I  want  you  to  come 
to  this  one,"  said  Sidney.  "You'll  love  old 
Mr.  von  Praag.  And  Richard,  the  son,  is  a 
dear!    I  really  want  you." 

"He's  an  artist,  too,  isn't  he?"  said  Barry 
without  enthusiasm. 

"Who,  Richard?"  she  asked,  something  in 
his  manner  putting  her  a  little  at  a  loss.  "Yes; 
and  he's  very  clever,  and  so  nice!  He's  like  a 
brother  to  me." 

Barry  did  not  answer,  but  after  a  moment  he 
said,  scowling  a  little,  and  not  looking  up: 
■  A  fellow  like  that  has  pretty  smooth  sailing. 


(( 


I 

I02  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

Rich,  the  son  of  a  big  man,  traveling  all  he 
wants  to,  studio  in  New  York,  clubs— 


>) 


"Oh,  Richard  has  his  troubles,"  Sidney  said. 
"His  wife  is  very  delicate,  and  they  lost  their 
little  girl  .  .  .  Are  you  angry  with  me  about 
anything,  Barry?"  she  broke  off,  puzzled  and 
distressed,  for  this  unresponsive  almost  sullen 
manner  was  unlike  anything  she  had  ever  seen 
in  him. 

But  a  moment  later  he  turned  toward  her 
with  his  familiar  sunny  smile. 

"Why  didn't  you  say  so  before?"  he  said 
sheepishly. 

"Say ?"  she  echoed  bewilderedly.    Then, 

with  a  sudden  rush  of  enlightenment,  "Why, 
Barry,  you're  not  jealous?" 

A  second  later  she  would  have  given  much  to 
have  the  words  unsaid.  They  faced  each  other 
in  silence,  the  color  mounting  steadily  in  Sid- 
ney's face. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  103 

"I  didn't  mean  of  we,"  she  stammered  un- 
comfortably; "I  meant  of  everything.  I  thought 
— but  it  was  a  silly  thing  to  say.  It  sounded 
—I  didn't  think " 

"I  don't  know  why  you  shouldn't  have 
thought  it,  since  I  was  fool  enough  to  show  it," 
said  Barry  after  a  moment,  coming  over  to  her 
desk  and  facing  her  squarely.  Sidney  stood  up, 
opposite  him,  her  heart  beating  wildly.  "And 
I  don't  know  why  I  shouldn't  be  jealous,"  he 
went  on  steadily,  "at  the  idea  that  some  old 
friend  might  come  in  here  and  take  you  away 
from  Santa  Paloma.  You  asked  me  if  it  was 
old  Rogers'  going  that  made  a  difference  to 
me " 

"I  know,"  interrupted  Sidney,  scarlet- 
cheeked.    "Please" 

"But  you  know  better  than  that,"  Barry 
went  on,  his  voice  rising  a  httle.  "You  know 
what  you  have  done  for  me.    If  ever  I  try  to 


I04  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

speak  of  it,  you  say,  as  you  said  about  the  kid 
just  now,  'My  dear  boy,  I  like  to  do  it.'  But 
I'm  going  to  say  what  I  mean  now,  once  and  for 
all.  You  loaned  me  money,  and  it  was  through 
your  lending  it  that  I  got  credit  to  borrow  more; 
you  gave  me  a  chance  to  be  my  own  master;  you 
showed  you  had  faith  in  me;  you  reminded  me 
of  the  ambition  I  had  as  a  kid,  before  Hetty  and 
all  that  trouble  had  crushed  it  out  of  m^e;  you 
came  down  here  to  the  office  and  talked  and 
planned,  and  took  it  for  granted  that  I  was 
going  to  pull  m3i^self  together  and  stop  idling, 
and  kicking,  and  fooling  away  my  time;  and 
all  through  these  six  weeks  of  rough  sailing, 
you've  let  me  go  up  there  to  the  Hall  and  tell 
you  everything — and  then  you  wonder  if  I 
could  ever  be  jealous!"  His  tone,  which  had 
risen  almost  to  violence,  fell  suddenly.  He  went 
back  to  his  desk  and  began  to  straighten  the 
papers   there,   not   seeing   what   he   did.      "I 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  105 

never  can  say  anything  more  to  you,  Sidney, 
I've  said  too  much  now,"  he  said  a  little  huskily; 
"but  I'm  glad  to  have  you  know  how  I 
feel." 

Sidney  stood  quite  still,  her  breath  coming 
and  going  quickly.  She  was  fundamentally  too 
honest  a  woman  to  meet  the  situation  with 
one  of  the  hundred  insincerities  that  suggested 
themselves  to  her.  She  knew  she  was  to  blame, 
and  she  longed  to  undo  the  mischief,  and  put 
their  friendship  back  where  it  had  been  only 
an  hour  ago.  But  the  right  words  did  not 
suggest  themselves,  and  she  could  only  stand 
silently  watching  him.  Barry  had  opened  a 
book,  and,  holding  it  in  both  hands,  was  ap- 
parently absorbed  in  its  contents. 

Neither  had  spoken  or  moved,  and  Sidne}^ 
was  meditating  a  sudden,  wordless  departure, 
when  Ellen  Burgoyne  burst  noisily  into  the 
room.    Ellen  was  a  square,  splendid  child,  al- 


jo6  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

ways  conversationally  inclined,  and  never  at  a 
loss  for  a  subject. 

"You  look  as  if  you  wanted  to  cry,  Mother," 
said  she.  "Perhaps  you  didn't  hear  the  whistle; 
school's  out.  We've  been  waiting  ever  so  long. 
Mother,  I  know  you  said  you  hoped  Heaven 
would  not  send  any  more  dogs  our  way  for  a 
long  while,  but  Jo  and  Jeanette  and  I  found  one 
by  the  school  fence.  Mother,  you  will  say  it 
has  the  most  pathetic  face  you  ever  saw  when 
you  see  it.  Its  ear  was  bloody,  and  it  licked 
Jo's  hand  so  gently,  and  it's  such  a  lit-tul  dog! 
Jo  has  it  wrapped  up  in  her  coat.  Mother,  may 
we  have  it?    Please,  please " 

Barry  wheeled  about  with  his  hearty  laugh, 
and  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  laughing  too,  stopped  the 
eager  little  mouth  with  a  kiss. 

"It  sounds  as  if  we  must  certainly  have  him, 
Baby!"  said  she. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

The  new  mistress  of  the  Hall,  in  her  vigorous 
young  interest  in  all  things,  included  naturally 
a  keen  enjoyment  of  the  village  love  affairs,  she 
liked  to  hear  the  histories  of  the  old  families  all 
about,  she  wanted  to  know  the  occupants  of 
every  shabby  old  surrey  that  drew  up  at  the 
post-office  while  the  mail  was  being  "sorted." 
But  if  the  conversation  turned  to  mere  idle  talk 
and  speculation,  she  was  conspicuously  silent. 
And  upon  an  occasion  when  Mrs.  Adams  casu- 
ally referred  to  a  favorite  little  piece  of  scandal, 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  gave  the  conversation  a  sudden 
twist  that,  as  Mrs.  White,  who  was  present, 
said  later,  "made  you  afraid  to  call  your  soul 
your  own," 

"Do   you   tell   me   that   that   pretty   little 

107 


io8  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

Thome  girl  is  actually  meeting  this  young  man, 
whoever  he  is,  while  her  mother  thinks  she  is 
taking  a  music  lesson?"  demanded  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne,  suddenly  entering  into  the  conversation. 
''There's  nothing  against  him,  I  suppose?  She 
could  see  him  at  home." 

I  "Oh,  no,  he's  a  nice  enough  little  fellow," 
Mrs.  Wliite  said,  "but  she's  a  silly  little  thing, 
and  I  imagine  her  people  are  very  severe  with 
her;  she  never  goes  to  dances  or  seems  to  have 
any  fun." 

1  "I  wonder  if  we  couldn't  go  see  the  mother, 
and  hint  that  there  is  beginning  to  be  a  little 
talk  about  Katherine,"  mused  Mrs.  Burgoyne. 
"Don't  you  think  so,  Mrs.  Adams?" 

"Oh,  my  goodness!"  Mrs.  Adams  said  ner- 
vously, "I  don't  know  anything  about  it!  I 
wouldn't  for  the  world — I  never  dreamed — one 
would  hate  to  start  trouble — Mr.  Adams  is  very 
fond  of  the  Thomes " 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  109 

"But  we  ought  to  save  her  if  we  can,  we 
married  women  who  know  how  mischievous 
that  sort  of  thing  is,"  Mrs.  Burgoyne  urged. 

"Why,  probably  they've  not  met  but  once  or 
twice!"  Mrs.  White  said,  annoyed,  but  with  a 
comfortable  air  of  closing  the  subject,  and  no 
more  was  said  at  the  time.  But  both  she  and 
Mrs.  Adams  wf^re  a  little  uneasy  two  or  three 
days  later,  when,  returning  from  a  motor  trip, 
they  saw  Mrs.  Burgoyne  standing  at  the 
Thornes'  gate,  in  laughing  conversation  v/ith 
pretty  little  Katherine  and  her  angular,  tall 
mother. 

"And  there  is  nothing  in  that  story  at  all," 
said  Mrs.  Burgoyne  later,  to  Mrs.  Carew. 

"I  suppose  you  walked  up  and  said,  'If  you 
are  Miss  Thome,  you  are  clandestinely  meeting 
Joe  Turner  down  by  the  old  mill  every  week! '  " 
laughed  Mrs.  Carew. 

T  managed  it  very  nicely,"  Mrs.  Burgoyne 


iC 


no  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

said,  "I  admired  their  yellow  rose  one  day,  as 
I  passed  the  gate.  Mrs.  Thorne  was  standing 
there,  and  I  asked  if  it  wasn't  a  Banksia.  Then 
the  little  girl  came  out  of  the  house,  and  she 
happened  to  know  who  I  am " 

"Astonishingly  bright  child!"  said  Mrs. 
Carew. 

"Well,  and  then  we  talked  roses,  and  the 
father  came  home — a  nice  old  man.  And  I 
asked  him  if  he'd  lend  me  Miss  Thorne  now 
and  then  to  play  duets — and  he  agreed.  So 
the  child's  been  up  to  the  Hall  once  or  twice, 
and  she's  a  nice  little  thing.  She  doesn't  care 
tuppence  for  the  Turner  boy,  but  he's  musical, 
and  she's  quite  music-mad,  and  now  and  then 
they  '  accidentally'  meet.  Her  father  won 't  let 
anyone  see  her  at  the  house.  She  wants  to 
study  abroad,  but  they  can't  afford  it,  I  im- 
agine, so  I've  written  to  see  if  I  can  interest  a 
friend  of  mine  in  Berlin — But  why  do  you 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  iii 

smile?  "    she    broke    off    to    ask    innocently. 

"At  the  thought  of  your  friend  in  Berlin!" 
said  Mrs.  Carew  audaciously.  For  she  was  not 
at  all  awed  by  Mrs.  Burgoyne  now. 

Indeed,  she  and  Mrs.  Brown  were  growing 
genuinely  fond  of  their  new  neighbor,  and  the 
occupants  of  the  Hall  supplied  them  with  con- 
stant amusement  and  interest.  Great  lady  and 
great  heiress  Sidney  Burgoyne  might  be,  but 
she  lived  a  life  far  simpler  than  their  own,  and 
loved  to  have  them  come  in  for  a  few  minutes' 
talk  even  if  she  were  cutting  out  cookies,  with 
Joanna  and  Ellen  leaning  on  the  table,  or  feed- 
ing the  chickens  whose  individual  careers  in- 
terested her  so  deeply.  She  walked  with  the 
little  girls  to  school  every  morning,  and  met 
them  near  the  school  at  one  o'clock.  In  the 
meantime  she  made  a  visit  to  the  Mail 
office,  and  perhaps  spent  an  hour  or  two  there, 
or  in  the  markets;  but  at  least  three  times  a 


112  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

week  she  wandered  over  to  Old  Paloma,  and 
spent  the  forenoon  in  the  dingy  streets  across 
the  river.  What  she  did  there,  perhaps  no  one 
but  Doctor  Brown,  who  came  to  have  a  real 
affection  and  respect  for  her,  fully  appreciated. 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  would  tell  him,  when  they  met 
in  some  hour  of  life  or  death,  that  she  was 
"making  friends."  It  was  quite  true.  She  was 
the  type  of  woman  who  cannot  pass  a  small 
child  in  the  street.  She  must  stop,  and  ask 
questions,  decide  disputes  and  give  advice.  And 
through  the  children  she  won  the  big  brothers 
and  sisters  and  fathers  and  mothers  of  Old 
Paloma.  Even  a  deep-rooted  prejudice  against 
the  women  of  her  class  and  their  method  of 
dealing  with  the  less  fortunate  could  not  prevail 
against  her  disarming,  friendly  manner,  her 
simple  gown  and  hat,  her  eagerness  to  get  the 
new  baby  into  her  arms;  all  these  told  in  her 
favor,  and  she  became  very  popular  in  the 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  113 

shabby  little  settlement  across  the  bridge.  She 
would  sit  at  a  sewing-machine  and  show  old 
Mrs.  Goodspeed  how  to  turn  a  certain  hem,  she 
would  prescribe  barley-water  and  whey  for  the 
Barnes  baby,  she  would  explain  to  Mrs.  Ryan 
the  French  manner  of  cooking  tough  meat,  it 
is  true;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  she  let  pale 
Httle  discouraged  Mrs.  Weber,  of  the  Bakery, 
show  her  how  to  make  a  German  potato  pie,  and 
when  Mrs.  Ryan's  mother,  old  Mrs.  Lynch, 
knitted  her  a  shawl,  with  clean,  thin  old  work- 
worn  hands,  the  tears  came  into  her  bright  eyes 
as  she  accepted  the  gift.  So  it  was  no  more 
than  a  neighborly  give-and-take  after  all. 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  would  fall  into  step  beside  a 
factory  girl,  walking  home  at  sunset.  "How 
was  it  today,  Nellie?  Did  you  speak  to  the 
foreman  about  an  opening  for  your  sister?" 
the  rich,  interested  voice  would  ask.  Or  per- 
haps some  factory  lad  would  find  her  facing  him 


114  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

in  a  lane.  "Tell  me,  Joe,  what's  all  this  talk  of 
trouble  between  you  and  the  Lacy  boys  at  the 
rink?" 

"I'm  a  widow,  too,"  she  reminded  poor  little 
Mrs.  Peevy,  one  day,  "I  understand."  "Do 
let  me  send  you  the  port  wine  I  used  to  take 
after  Ellen  was  born,"  she  begged  one  little 
sickly  mother,  and  when  she  loaned  George 
Manning  four  hundred  dollars  to  finish  his  new 
house,  and  get  his  wife  and  babies  up  from  San 
Francisco,  the  transaction  was  made  palata- 
ble to  George  by  her  encouraging:  "Everyone 
borrows  money  for  building,  I  assure  you.  I 
know  my  father  did  repeatedly." 

When  more  subtle  means  were  required,  she 
was  still  equal  to  the  occasion.  It  was  while 
Viola  Peet  was  in  the  hospital  for  a  burned 
wrist  that  Mrs.  Burgoyne  made  a  final  and 
effective  attempt  to  move  poor  Kttle  Mrs.  Peet 
out  of  the  bedroom  where  she  had  lain  com- 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  115 

plaining,  ever  since  the  accident  that  had 
crippled  her  and  killed  her  husband  five  years 
before.  Mrs.  Burgoyne  put  it  as  a  "surprise  for 
Viola,"  and  Mrs.  Peet,  whose  one  surviving 
spark  of  interest  in  life  centred  in  her  three 
children,  finally  permitted  carpenters  to  come 
and  build  a  porch  outside  her  dining-room,  and 
was  actually  transferred,  one  warm  June  after- 
noon, to  the  wide,  delicious  hammock-bed  that 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  had  hung  there.  Her  eyes, 
dulled  with  staring  at  a  chocolate  wall-paper, 
and  a  closet  door,  for  five  years,  roved  almost 
angrily  over  the  stretch  of  village  street  visible 
from  the  porch;  the  perspective  of  tree- 
smothered  roofs  and  feathery  elm  and  locust 
trees. 

"  'Tisn't  a  bit  more  than  I'd  do  for  you  if  I  was 
rich  and  you  poor,"  said  Mrs.  Peet,  rebelliously. 

"Oh,  I  know  that!"  said  Mrs.  Burgoyne, 
busily  punching  pillows. 


ii6  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

"An',  as  you  say,  Viola  deserves  all  I  c'n  do 
for  her,"  pursued  the  invalid.  "But  remember, 
every  cent  of  this  you  git  back." 

"Every  cent,  just  as  soon  as  Lyman  is  old 
enough  to  take  a  job,"  agreed  Mrs.  Burgo>Tie. 
"There,  how's  that?  That's  the  way  Colonel 
Burgoyne  liked  to  be  fixed." 

"You're  to  make  a  note  of  just  what  it  costs," 
persisted  Mrs.  Peet,  "this  wrapper,  and  the 
pillers,  and  all." 

"Oh,  let  the  wrapper  be  my  present  to  you, 
Mrs.  Peet!" 

"No,  md'am!^^  said  Mrs.  Peet,  firmly.  And 
she  told  the  neighbors,  later,  in  the  delightfully 
exciting  afternoon  and  evening  that  followed 
her  installation  on  the  porch,  that  she  wasn't  an 
object  of  charity,  and  she  and  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
both  knew  it.  Mrs.  Burgoyne  would  not  stay 
to  see  Viola's  face,  when  she  came  home  from 
the  hospital  to  find  her  mother  watching  the 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  117 

summer  stars  prick  through  the  warm  darkness, 
but  Viola  came  up  to  the  Hall  that  same  even- 
ing, and  tried  to  thank  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  and 
laughed  and  cried  at  once,  and  had  to  be  con- 
soled with  cookies  and  milk  until  the  smiles  had 
the  upper  hand,  and  she  could  go  home,  with 
occasional  reminiscent  sobs  still  shaking  her 
bony  little  chest. 

"What  are  you  trying  to  do  over  there?" 
asked  Dr.  Brown,  coming  in  with  his  wife  for 
a  rubber  of  bridge,  as  Viola  departed.  "  Where- 
ever  I  go,  I  come  across  your  trail.  Are  we 
nursing  a  socialist  in  our  bosom?" 

"No-o-o,  I  don't  think  I'm  that,"  said  Sidney 
laughing,  and  pushing  the  porch-chairs  into 
comfortable  relation.  "Let's  sit  out  here  until 
Mr.  Valentine  comes.  No,  I'm  not  a  socialist. 
But  I  can't  help  feeling  that  there's  some 
solution  for  a  wretched  problem  like  that  over 
there,"   a   wave   of   the   hand   indicated   Old 


iiS  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

Paloma,  "and  perhaps,  dabbling  aimlessly 
about  in  all  sorts  of  places,  one  of  us  may  hit 
upon  it." 

"But  I  thought  the  modern  theory  was 
against  dabbling,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  a  Httle 
timidly,  for  she  held  a  theory  that  she  was  not 
"smart."  "I  thought  everything  was  being 
done  by  institutions,  and  by  laws — by  legisla- 
tion." 

"Nothing  will  ever  be  done  by  legislation, 
to  my  thinking  at  least,"  Mrs.  Burgo}'ne  said. 
"A  few  years  ago  we  legislated  some  thousands 
of  new  babies  into  magnificent  institutions. 
Nurses  mixed  their  bottles,  doctors  inspected 
them,  nurses  turned  them  and  washed  them 
and  watched  them.  Do  you  know  what  per- 
centage survived?" 

"Doesn't  work  ver}^  well,"  said  the  doctor, 
shaking  a  thoughtful  head  over  his  pipe. 

"Just  one  hundred  per  cent  didn't  survive!" 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  119 

said  Mrs.  Burgoyne.  "Now  they  take  a 
foundling  or  an  otherwise  unfortunate  baby, 
and  give  it  to  a  real  live  mother.  She  nurses  it 
if  she  can,  she  keeps  near  to  it  and  cuddles  it, 
and  loves  it.  And  so  it  lives.  In  all  the  asylums, 
it's  the  same  w^ay.  Groups  are  getting  smaller 
and  smaller,  a  dozen  girls  with  a  matron  in  a 
cottage,  and  hundreds  of  girls  '  farmed  out '  w^ith 
good,  responsible  women,  instead  of  enormous 
refectories  and  dormitories  and  schoolrooms. 
And  the  ideal  solution  will  be  when  every  in- 
dividual woman  in  the  world  extends  her 
mothering  to  include  every  young  thing  she 
comes  in  contact  with;  one  doll  for  her  own  child 
and  another  doll  for  the  ashman's  little  girl,  one 
dimaty  for  her  own  debutante,  and  another  just 
as  dainty  for  the  seventeen-year-old  who  brings 
home  the  laundry  every  week." 

"Yes,     but     that's    puttering     here     and 
there,"  asserted  Mrs.  Brown,  "wouldn't  laws 


I20  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

for  a  working  wage  do  all  that,  and  more, 
too?" 

"In  the  first  place,  a  working  wage  doesn't 
solve  it,"  Mrs.  Burgoyne  answered  vigorously, 
"because  in  fully  half  the  mismanaged  and 
dirty  homes,  the  working  people  have  a  working 
wage,  have  an  amount  of  money  that  would 
amaze  you !  Who  buys  the  willow  plumes,  and 
the  phonographs,  and  the  enlarged  pictures,  and 
the  hair  combs  and  the  white  shoes  that  are 
sold  by  the  million  every  year?  The  poor 
people,  girls  in  shops,  and  women  whose  babies 
are  always  dirty,  and  always  broken  out  with 
skin  trouble,  and  whose  homes  are  hot  and  dirty 
and  miserable  and  mismanaged." 

"Well,  make  some  laws  to  educate  'em  then, 
if  it's  education  they  all  need,"  suggested  the 
doctor,  who  had  been  auditing  every  clause  of 
the  last  remark  with  a  thoughtful  nod. 

No,  wages  aren't  the  question,"  Mrs.  Bur- 


n- 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  I2i 

goyne  reiterated.  "Why,  I  knew  a  little  Swed- 
ish woman  once,  who  raised  three  children  on 
three  hundred  dollars  a  year." 

"She  couldn't!''  ejaculated  Mrs.  Brown. 

"Oh,  but  she  did!  She  paid  one  dollar  a 
week  for  rent,  too.  One  son  is  a  civil  engineer, 
now,  and  the  daughter  is  a  nurse.  The  young- 
est is  studying  medicine." 

"But  what  did  they  eat,  do  you  suppose?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Potatoes,  I  suppose,  and 
oatmeal  and  baked  cabbage,  and  soup.  I  know 
she  got  a  quart  of  buttermilk  every  day,  for 
three  cents.  They  were  beautiful  children. 
They  went  to  free  schools,  and  lectures,  and 
galleries,  and  park  concerts,  and  free  dispens- 
aries, when  they  needed  them.  Laws  could  do 
no  more  for  her,  she  knew  her  business." 

"Well,  education  would  solve  it  then,"  con- 
cluded Mrs.  Brown. 

"I  don't  know."    Mrs.  Burgoyne  answered, 


122  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

reflectively,  "Book  education  won't  certainly. 
But  example  might,  I  believe  example  would." 

"You  mean  for  people  of  a  better  class  to  go 
and  live  among  them?"  suggested  the  doctor. 

"No,  but  I  mean  for  people  of  a  better  class 
to  show  them  that  what  they  are  striving  for 
isn't  vital,  after  all.  I  mean  for  us  to  so  order 
our  lives  that  they  will  begin  to  value  cleanli- 
ness, and  simplicity,  and  the  comforts  they  can 
afford.  You  know,  Mary  Brown,"  said  Mrs. 
Burgoyne,  turning  suddenly  to  the  doctor's 
wife,  with  her  gay,  characteristic  vehemence, 
"it's  all  our  fault,  all  the  misery  and  suffering 
and  sin  of  it,  everywhere!" 

"Our  fault!  You  and  me!"  cried  Mrs. 
Brown,  aghast, 

"No,  all  the  fault  of  women,  I  mean!"  Mrs. 
Burgoyne  laughed  too  as  Mrs.  Brown  settled  back 
in  her  chair  with  a  relieved  sigh.  "  We  women," 
she  went  on  vigorously,   "have  mismanaged 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  123 

every  separate  work  that  was  ever  put  into  our 
hands!  We  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  Hve.  We 
cumber " 

"Here!"  said  the  doctor,  smiling  in  lazy 
comfort  over  his  pipe,  "that's  heresy!  I  refuse 
to  listen  to  it.  My  wife  is  a  woman,  my  mother, 
unless  I  am  misinformed,  was  another " 

"Don't  mind  him!"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  "but 
go  on!  What  have  we  all  done?  We  manage 
our  houses,  and  dress  our  children,  and  feed 
our  husbands,  it  seems  to  me." 

"Well,  there's  the  big  business  of  mother- 
hood," began  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  ''the  holiest  and 
highest  thing  God  ever  let  a  mortal  do.  We 
evade  it  and  ignore  it  to  such  an  extent  that  the 
nation — and  other  nations — grows  actually 
alarmed,  and  men  begin  to  frame  laws  to  coax 
us  back  to  the  bearing  of  children.  Then,  if 
we  have  them,  we  turn  the  entire  responsibility 
over  to  other  people.    A  raw  little  foreigner  of 


124  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

[ 

some  sort  answers  the  first  questions  our  boys 
and  girls  ask,  until  they  are  old  enough  to  be 
put  under  some  nice,  inexperienced  young  girl 
just  out  of  normal  school,  who  has  fifty  or  sixty 
of  them  to  manage,  and  of  whose  ideas  upon  the 
big  questions  of  life  we  know  absolutely  noth- 
ing. We  say  lightheartedly  that  'girls  always 
go  through  a  trying  age,'  and  that  we  suppose 
boys  'have  to  come  in  contact  with  things,'  and 
we  let  it  go  at  that!  We  'suppose  there  has 
always  been  vice,  and  always  will  be,'  but  we 
never  stop  to  think  that  we  ourselves  are  setting 
the  poor  girls  of  the  other  world  such  an  example 
in  the  clothes  we  wear,  and  the  pleasures  we 
take,  that  they  will  sell  even  themselves  for 
pretty  gowns  and  theatre  suppers.  We  regret 
sweat-shops,  even  while  we  patronize  the 
stores  that  support  them,  and  we  bemoan  child- 
labor,  although  I  suppose  the  simplest  thing  in 
the  world  would  be  to  find  out  where  the  cotton 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  125 

goes  that  is  worked  by  babies,  and  refuse  to 
buy  those  brands  of  cotton,  and  make  our 
merchants  tell  us  where  they  do  get  their 
supply!  We  have  managed  our  household 
problem  so  badly  that  we  simply  can't  get 
help " 

"You  cannot  do  your  own  work,  with  chil- 
dren," said  Mrs.  Brown  firmly. 

"Of  course  you  can't.  But  why  is  it  that 
our  nice  young  American  girls  won't  come  into 
our  homes?  Why  do  we  have  to  depend  upon 
the  most  ignorant  and  untrained  of  our  foreign 
people?  Our  girls  pour  into  the  factories,  al- 
though our  husbands  don't  have  any  trouble  in 
getting  their  brothers  for  office  positions.  There 
is  always  a  fine  of  boys  waiting  for  a  possible 
job  at  five  dollars  a  week." 

"Because  they  can  sleep  at  home,"  submitted 
the  doctor. 

"You  know  that,  other  things  being  equal, 


126  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

young  people  would  much  rather  not  sleep  at 
home,"  said  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  "it's  the  migrating 
age.  They  love  the  novelty  of  being  away  at 
night." 

"Well,  when  a  boy  comes  into  my  office," 
the  doctor  reasoned  slowly,  "  he  knows 
that  he  has  certam  unimportant  things  to  do, 
but  he  sees  me  taking  all  the  real  responsi- 
bility, he  knows  that  I  work  harder  than  he 
does." 

"Exactly,"  said  Mrs.  Burgoyne.  "Men  do 
their  own  work,  with  help.  We  don't  do  ours. 
Not  only  that,  but  e\'ery'  improvement  that 
comes  to  ours  comes  from  men.  They  invent 
our  conveniences,  they  design  our  stoves  and 
arrange  our  sinks.  Not  because  they  know 
anything  about  it,  but  because  we're  not  inter- 
ested." 

"One  would  think  you  had  done  your  own 
work  for  twenty  years!"  said  Mrs.  Brown. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  127 

"I  never  did  it,"  Mrs.  Burgoyne  answered 
smiling,  "but  I  sometimes  wish  I  could.  I 
sometimes  envy  those  busy  women  who  have 
small  houses,  new  babies,  money  cares — it 
must  be  glorious  to  rise  to  fresh  emergencies 
every  hour  of  your  life.  A  person  like  myself 
is  handicapped.  I  can't  demonstrate  that  I 
believe  what  I  say.  Everyone  thinks  me  merely 
a  Httle  affected  about  it.  If  I  were  such  a 
woman,  I'd  glory  in  clipping  my  life  of  every- 
thing but  the  things  I  needed,  and  living  like 
one  of  my  own  children,  as  simply  as  a  lot  of 
peasants!" 

"And  no  one  would  ever  be  any  the  wiser," 
said  Mrs.  Brown. 

"I  don't  know.  Quiet  little  isolated  lives 
have  a  funny  way  of  getting  out  into  the  light. 
There  was  that  little  peasant  girl  at  Domremy, 
for  instance;  there  was  that  gentle  saint  who 
preached    poverty    to    the    birds;    there    was 


128  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

Eugenie  Gu^rin,  and  the  Cur6  of  Ars,  and  the 
few  obscure  Httle  English  weavers — and  there 
was  the  President  who  spUt " 

"I  thought  we'd  come  to  him!"  chuckjed  the 
doctor. 

''Well,"  Mrs.  Burgoyne  smiled,  a  little  con- 
fused at  having  betrayed  hero-worship.  "Well, 
and  there  was  one  more,  the  greatest  of  all,  who 
didn't  found  any  asylums,  or  lead  any  cru- 
sade  "    She' paused. 

"Surely,"  said  the  doctor,  quietly.  "Surely. 
I  suppose  that  curing  the  lame  here,  and  the 
blind  there,  and  giving  the  people  their  fill  of 
wine  one  day,  and  of  bread  and  fishes  the  next, 
might  be  called  'dabbling'  in  these  days.  But 
the  love  that  went  with  those  things  is  warming 
the  world  yet!" 

"Well,  but  what  can  we  do?"  demanded 
Mrs.  Brown  after  a  short  silence. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  129 

"That's  for  us  to  find  out,"  said  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne,  cheerfully. 

"A  correct  diagnosis  is  half  a  cure,"  ended  the 
doctor,  hopefully. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Barry  was  the  last  guest  to  reach  Holly  Hall 
on  the  evening  of  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  first  dinner- 
party, and  came  in  to  find  the  great  painter  who 
was  her  guest  the  centre  of  a  laughing  and  talk- 
ing group  in  the  long  drawing-room.  Mrs. 
Apostleman,  with  an  open  book  of  reproduc- 
tions from  Whistler  on  her  broad,  brocade  lap, 
had  the  armchair  next  to  the  guest  of  honor, 
and  Barry's  quick  look  for  his  hostess  discovered 
her  on  a  low  hassock  at  the  painter's  knee,  look- 
ing very  young  and  fresh,  in  her  white  frock, 
with  a  LaMarque  rose  at  her  belt  and  another 
in  her  dark  hair.  She  greeted  him  very  gravely, 
almost  timidly,  and  in  the  new  self-consciousness 
that  had  suddenly  come  to  them  both  it  was 

with   difficulty   that   even   the   commonplace 

130 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  131 

\7ords  of  greeting  were  accomplished,  and  it 
was  with  evident  relief  that  she  turned  from 
him  to  ask  her  guests  to  come  into  the  dining- 
room. 

Warm  daylight  was  still  pouring  into  the 
drawing-room  at  seven  o'clock,  and  in  the 
pleasant  dining-room,  too,  there  was  no  other 
light.  The  windows  here  were  wide  open,  and 
garden  scents  drifted  in  from  the  recently 
w^atered  flower-beds.  The  long  table,  simply 
set,  was  ornamented  only  by  low  bowls  of  the 
lovely  San  Rafael  roses. 

Guided  and  stimulated  by  the  hostess,  the 
conversation  ran  in  a  gay,  unbroken  stream,  for 
the  painter  liked  to  talk,  and  Santa  Paloma 
enjoyed  him.  But  under  it  all  the  women 
guests  were  aware  of  an  almost  resentful  amaze- 
ment at  the  simplicity  of  the  dinner.  When, 
after  nine  o'clock,  the  ladies  went  into  the 
drawing-room  and  settled  about  a   snapping 


132  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

wood  fire,  Mrs.  Lloyd  could  not  resist  whisper- 
ing to  Mrs.  Apostleman,  "For  a  company 
dinner!"  Mrs.  Adams  was  entirely  absorbed 
in  deciding  just  what  position  she  would  take 
when  Mrs.  White  alluded  to  the  affair  the  next 
day;  but  Mrs.  White  had  come  primed  for 
special  business  this  evening,  and  she  took 
immediate  advantage  of  the  absence  of  the  men 
to  speak  to  Mrs.  Burgoyne. 

"As  president  of  our  httle  club,"  said  she, 
when  they  were  all  seated,  "I  am  authorized  to 
ask  you  if  I  may  put  your  name  up  for  member- 
ship, Mrs.  Burgoyne.  We  are  all  members  here, 
and  in  this  quiet  place  our  meetings  are  a  real 
pleasure,  and  I  hope  an  education  as  well." 

"Oh,  really !"  Mrs.  Burgoyne  began,  but 

the  other  went  on  serenely: 

"I  brought  one  of  our  yearly  programs,  we 
have  just  got  them  out,  and  I'm  going  to  leave 
it  with  you.    I  think  Mr.  White  left  it  here  on 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOl^NE  133 

the  table.  Yes;  here  it  is.  You  see,"  she 
opened  a  dainty  little  book  and  flattened  it 
with  a  white,  jeweled  hand,  ''our  work  is  all 
laid  out,  up  to  the  president's  breakfast  in 
March.  I  go  out  then,  and  a  week  later  we 
inaugurate  the  new  president.  Let  me  just  run 
over  this  for  you,  for  I  know  it  will  interest  you. 
Now  here,  Tuesdays.  Tuesday  is  our  regular 
meeting  day.  We  have  a  program,  music,  and 
books  suggested  for  the  week,  reports,  business, 
and  one  good  paper — the  topics  vary;  here's 
'Old  Thanksgiving  Customs,'  in  November, 
then  a  debate,  'What  is  Friendship,'  then 
'Christmas  Spirit, '  and  then  our  regular  Christ- 
mas Tree  and  Jinks.  Once  a  month,  on  Tues- 
day, we  have  some  really  fine  speaker  from  the 
city,  and  we  often  have  fine  singers,  and  so  on. 
Then  we  have  a  monthly  reception  for  our  vis- 
itors, and  a  supper;  usually  we  just  have  tea 
and  bread-and-butter  after  the  meetings.   Then, 


134  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

first  Monday,  Directors'  Meeting;  that  doesn't 
matter.  Every  other  Wednesday  the  Literary 
Section  meets,  they  are  doing  wonderful  work; 
Miss  Foster  has  that;  she  makes  it  very  in- 
teresting. 'What  Enghsh  Literature  Owes  to 
Meredith,'  'Rossetti,  the  Man,' — you  see  I'm 
just  skimming,  to  give  you  some  idea.  Then 
the  Dramatic  Section,  every  other  Thursday; 
they  give  a  play  once  a  year;  that's  great 
fun!  'Ibsen — Did  he  Understand  Women?' 
'Please  Explain — Mr.  Shaw?' — Mrs.  Moore 
makes  that  very  amusing.  Then  alternate 
Thursdays  the  Civic  and  Political  Section " 

"Ah!  What  does  that  do?"  said  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne. 

"Why,"  said  Mrs.  White  hesitating,  "I 
haven't  been — however,  I  think  they  took  up 
the  sanitation  of  the  schools;  Miss  Jewett,  from 
Sacramento,  read  a  splendid  paper  about  it. 
There's  a  committee  to  look  into  that,  and  then 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  135 

last  year  that  section  planted  a  hundred  trees. 
And  then  there's  parliamentary  drill." 

"Which  we  all  need,"  said  Mrs.  Adams,  and 
there  was  laughter. 

"Then  there's  the  Art  Department  once  a 
month,"  resumed  Mrs.  White,  "Founders'  Day, 
Old-Timers'  Day,  and,  in  February,  we  think 
Judge  Lindsey  may  address  us " 

"Oh,  are  you  doing  any  juvenile-court 
work?"  said  the  hostess. 

"We  wanted  his  suggestions  about  it," 
Mrs.  White  said.    "We  feel  that  if  we  could  get 

some  of  the  ladies  interested !    Then  here's 

the  French  class  once  a  week;  German,  Spanish, 
and  the  bridge  club  on  Fridays." 

"Gracious!  You  use  your  clubhouse,"  said 
Mrs.  Burgoyne. 

"Nearly  every  day.  So  come  on  Tuesday," 
said  the  president  winningly,  "and  be  our 
guest.    A  Miss  Carroll  is  to  sing,  and  Professor 


136  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

Noyesmith,  of  Berkeley,  will  read  a  paper  on: 
'The  City  Beautiful.'  Keep  that  year-book; 
I  butchered  it,  running  through  it  so  fast." 

"Well,  just  now,"  Mrs.  Burgoyne  began  a 
little  hesitatingly,  "I'm  rather  busy.  I  am  at 
the  Mail  office  while  the  girls  are  in  school,  you 
know,  and  we  have  laid  out  an  enormous  lot  of 
gardening  for  afternoons.  They  never  tire  of 
gardening  if  I'm  with  them,  but,  of  course,  no 
children  will  do  that  sort  of  thing  alone;  and 
it's  doing  them  both  so  much  good  that  I  don't 
want  to  stop  it.  Then  they  study  German  and 
Italian  with  me,  and  on  Saturday  have  a  cook- 
ing lesson.    You  see,  my  time  is  pretty  full." 

"But  a  good  governess  would  take  every  bit 
of  that  off  your  hands,  me  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Apostleman. 

"  Oh,  but  I  love  to  do  it! "  protested  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne with  her  wide-eyed,  childish  look.  "You 
can't  really  buy  for  them  what  you  can  do 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  137 

yourself,  do  you  think  so?  And  now  the  other 
children  are  beginning  to  come  in,  and  it's  such 
fun!  But  that  isn't  all.  I  have  editorial  work 
to  do,  besides  the  Mail,  you  know.  I  manage 
the  'Answers  to  Mothers'  column  in  a  little 
eastern  magazine.  I  daresay  you've  never  seen 
it;  it  is  quite  unpretentious,  but  it  has  a  large 
circulation.  And  these  mothers  write  me,  some 
of  them  factory-workers,  or  mothers  of  child- 
workers  even,  or  lonely  women  on  some  isolated 
ranch;  you've  no  idea  how  interesting  it  is!  Of 
course  they  don't  know  who  I  am,  but  we  be- 
come good  friends,  just  the  same.  I  have  the 
best  reference  books  about  babies  and  sickness, 
and  I  give  them  the  best  advice  I  can.  Some- 
times it's  a  boy's  text-book  that  is  wanted,  or  a 
second-hand  crib,  or  some  dear  old  mother  to 
get  into  a  home,  and  they  are  so  self-respecting 
about  it,  and  so  afraid  they  aren't  paying  fair — 
I  love  that  work!    But,  of  course,  it  takes  time. 


138  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 


!► 


Then  I've  been  hunting  up  a  music-teacher  for 
the  girls.    I  can't  teach  them  that " 


(( ' 


I  meant  to  speak  to  you  of  that,"  Mrs, 
Wliite  said.  "There's  a  Monsieur  Posti,  Emil 
Posti,  he  studied  with  Leschetizky,  you  know, 
who  comes  up  from  San  Francisco  every  other 
week,  and  we  all  take  from  him.  In  between 
times " 

"Oh,  but  I've  engaged  a  nice  little  Miss 
Davids  from  Old  Paloma,"  said  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne. 

"From  Old  Paloma!"  echoed  three  women 
together.  And  Mrs.  Apostleman  added  heavily, 
' '  Never  heard  of  her ! " 

"I  got  a  good  little  Swedish  sewing- woman 
over  there,"  the  hostess  explained,  "and  she 
told  me  of  this  girl.  She's  a  sweet  girl;  no 
mother,  and  a  little  sister  to  bring  up.  She  was 
quite  pleased." 

"But,  good  heavens!    What  does  she  know? 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  139 

What's  her  method?"  demanded  Mrs.  White  in 
puzzled  disapproval. 

"She  has  a  pretty  touch,"  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
said  mildly,  "and  she's  bristling  with  ambition 
and  ideas.  She's  not  a  genius,  perhaps;  but, 
then,  neither  is  either  of  the  girls.  T  just  want 
them  to  play  for  their  own  pleasure,  read  ac- 
companiments; something  of  that  sort.  Don't 
you  know  how  popular  the  girl  who  can  play 
college  songs  always  is  at  a  house-party?"         . 

"Well,  reall}^— "  Mrs.  White  began,  almost 
annoyed;  but  she  broke  her  sentence  off  ab- 
ruptly, and  Mrs.  Apostleman  filled  the  pause. 

"Whatever  made  ye  go  over  there  for  a  dress- 
maker?" she  demanded.  "We  never  think  of 
going  there.  There's  a  very  good  woman  here, 
in  the  Bank  Building " 

"Madame  Sorrel,"  supplemented  Mrs. 
Adams. 

"She's  fearfully  independent,"  Mrs.  Lloyd 


I40  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

contributed;  "but  she's  good.  She  made  your 
pink,  didn't  she,  Sue?    Wayne  said  she  did." 

Mrs.  Adams  turned  pink  herself;  the  others 
laughed  suddenly. 

''Oh,  you  naughty  girl!"  Mrs.  White  said. 
"Did  you  tell  Wayne  you  got  that  frock  in 
Santa  Paloma?"  ' 

"What  Wayne  doesn't  know  won't  hurt 
him,"  said  his  wife.  "Sh!  Here  they  come!" 
And  the  conversation  terminated  abruptly, 
with  much  laughter. 

Mrs.  Burgoyne's  dinner-party  dispersed 
shortly  after  ten  o'clock,  so  much  earher  than 
was  the  custom  in  Santa  Paloma  that  none  of 
the  ordered  motor-cars  were  in  waiting.  The 
guests  walked  home  together,  absorbed  in  an 
animated  conversation;  for  the  gentlemen,  who 
were  delighted  to  be  getting  home  early,  de- 
lighted with  a  dinner  that,  as  Wayne  Adams 
remarked,  "really  stood  for  something  to  eat, 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  141 

not  just  things  passed  to  you,  or  put  dowTi  in 
dabs  before  you,"  and  delighted  with  the  pleas- 
ant informality  of  sitting  down  in  daylight, 
were  enthusiastic  in  their  praise  of  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne.    The  ladies  differed  with  them. 

"She  knows  how  to  do  things,"  said  Parker 
Lloyd.  "Old  Von  Praag  himself  said  that  she 
was  a  famous  dinner-giver." 

"I  don't  know  what  you'd  say,  Wayne," 
said  Mrs.  Adams  patiently,  "if  /  asked  people 
to  sit  down  to  the  dinner  we  had  to-night!  Of 
course  we  haven't  eight  millions,  but  I  would  be 
ashamed  to  serve  a  cocktail,  a  soup — I  frankly 
admit  it  was  dehcious — steaks,  plain  lettuce 
salad,  and  fruit.  I  don't  count  coffee  and 
cheese.  No  wines,  no  entrees;  I  think  it  was 
decidedly  queers 

"I  wish  some  of  you  others  would  try  it," 
said  Willard  White  unexpectedly.  "  I  never  get 
dinners  like  that,  except  at  the  club,  down  in 


142  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

town.  The  cocktail  was  a  rare  sherry,  the 
steaks  were  broiled  to  a  turn,  and  the  salad 
dressing  was  a  wonder.  She  had  her  cheese 
just  ripe  enough,  and  samovar  coffee  to  wind 
up  with — what  more  do  you  want?  I  serve 
wine  myself,  but  champagne  keeps  you  thirsty 
all  night,  and  other  wines  put  me  to  sleep.  I 
don't  miss  wine!  I  call  it  a  bang-up  dinner, 
don't  you,  Parker?" 

Parker  Lloyd,  with  his  wife  on  his  arm,  felt 
discretion  his  part. 

"Well,"  he  said  innocently  selecting  the  one 
argument  most  distasteful  to  the  ladies,  "it  was 
a  man's  dinner,  Will.  It  was  just  what  a  man 
likes,  served  the  way  he  likes  it.  But  if  the  girls 
like  flummery  and  fuss,  I  don^t  see  why  they 
shouldn't  have  it." 

"Really!"  said  Mrs.  White  with  a  laugh  that 
showed  a  trace  of  something  not  hilarious, 
"really,  you  are  all  too  absurd!    We  are  a  long 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  143 

way  from  the  authorities  here,  but  I  think  we 
will  find  out  pretty  soon  that  simple  dinners 
have  become  the  fad  in  Washington,  or  Paris, 
and  that  your  marvelous  Mrs.  Burgoyne  is 
simply  following  the  fashion  like  all  the  rest  of 


us." 


CHAPTER  X 

Barry  had  murmured  something  about  "rush 
of  work  at  the  office"  when  he  came  in  a  few 
minutes  late  for  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  dinner,  but  as 
the  evening  wore  on,  he  seemed  in  no  hurry  to 
depart.  Sidney  was  dehghted  to  see  him  really 
in  his  element  with  the  Von  Praags,  father  and 
son,  the  awakened  expression  that  was  so  be- 
coming to  him  on  his  face,  and  his  curiously 
complex  arguments  stirring  the  old  man  over 
and  over  again  to  laughter.  She  had  been 
vexed  at  herself  for  feeling  a  Httle  shyness  when 
he  first  came  in;  the  unfamiliar  evening  dress 
and  the  gravity  of  his  handsome  face  had  made 
him  seem  almost  a  stranger,  but  this  wore  off, 

and  after  the  other  guests  had  gone  these  four 

144 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  145 

still  sat  laughing  and  talking  like  the  best  of  old 
friends  together. 

When  the  Von  Praags  had  gone  upstairs,  she 
walked  with  him  to  the  porch,  and  they  stood 
at  the  top  of  the  steps  for  a  moment,  the  rich 
scent  of  the  climbing  LaMarque  and  Banksia 
roses  heavy  about  them,  and  the  dark  starry 
arch  of  the  sky  above.  Sidney,  a  little  tired, 
but  pleased  with  her  dinner  and  her  guests,  and 
ready  for  a  breath  of  the  sweet  summer  night 
before  going  upstairs,  was  confused  by  having 
her  heart  suddenly  begin  to  thump  again.  She 
looked  at  Barry,  his  figure  lost  in  the  shadow, 
only  his  face  dimly  visible  in  the  starlight,  and 
some  feeling,  new,  young,  terrifying,  and  yet 
infinitely  dehcious,  rushed  over  her.  She  might 
have  been  a  girl  of  seventeen  instead  of  a 
sober  woman  fifteen  years  older,  with  wifehood, 
and  motherhood,  and  widowhood  all  behind  her. 

"A  wonderful  night!"  said  Barry,  looking 


146  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

down  at  the  dark  mass  of  tree-tops  that  almost 
hid  the  town,  and  at  the  rising  circle  of  shadows 
that  was  the  hills. 

"And  a  good  place  to  be,  Santa  Paloma," 
Sidney  added,  contentedly.  "It's  my  captured 
dream,  my  own  home  and  garden!"  With  her 
head  resting  against  one  of  the  pillars  of  the 
porch,  her  eyes  dreamily  moving  from  the  hills 
to  the  sky  and  over  the  quiet  woods,  she  went 
on  thoughtfully:  "You  know  I  never  had  a 
home,  Barry;  and  when  I  visited  here,  I  began 
to  realize  what  I  was  missing.  How  I  longed 
for  Santa  Paloma,  the  creek,  and  the  woods, 
and  my  little  sunny  room  after  I  went  away! 
But  even  when  I  was  eighteen,  and  we  took  a 
house  in  Washington,  what  could  I  do?  I 
'came  out,'  you  know.  I  loved  gowns  and 
parties  then,  as  I  hope  the  girls  will  some  day; 
but  I  knew  all  the  while  it  wasn't  living."  She 
paused,  but  Barry  did  not  speak.    "And,  then, 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  147 

before  I  was  twenty,  I  was  married,"  Sidney 
went  on  presently,  "and  we  started  off  for  St. 
Petersburg.  And  after  that,  for  years  and 
years,  I  posed  for  dressmakers;  I  went  the  round 
of  jewelers,  and  milliners,  and  manicures;  I 
wrote  notes  and  paid  calls.  I  let  one  strange 
woman  come  in  every  day  and  wash  my  hands 
for  me,  and  another  wash  my  hair,  and  a  third 
dress  me !  I  let  men — who  were  in  the  business 
simply  to  make  money,  and  who  knew  how  to 
do  it! — tell  me  that  my  furs  must  be  recut,  or 
changed,  and  my  jewels  reset,  and  my  ward- 
robe restocked  and  my  furniture  carried  away 
and  replaced.  And  in  the  cities  we  lived  in  it's 
horrifying  to  see  how  women  slave,  and  toil, 
and  worry  to  keep  up.  Half  the  women  I  knew 
were  sick  over  debts  and  the  necessity  for  more 
debts.  I  felt  like  saying,  with  Carlyle,  'Your 
chaos-ships  must  excuse  me';  I'm  going  back  to 
Santa  Paloma,  to  wear  my  things  as  long  as 


148  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

they  are  whole  and  comfortable,  and  do  what 
I  want  to  do  with  my  spare  time!" 

"You  missed  your  playtime,"  Barry  said; 
"now  you  make  the  most  of  it." 

"  Oh,  no! "  she  answered,  giving  him  a  glimpse 
of  serious  eyes  in  the  half -dark,  "playtime 
doesn't  come  back.  But,  at  least,  I  know  what 
I  want  to  do,  and  it  will  be  more  fun  than  any 
play.  One  of  the  wisest  men  I  ever  knew  set 
me  thinking  of  these  things.  He's  a  sculptor, 
a  great  sculptor,  and  he  lives  in  an  olive  garden 
in  Italy,  and  eats  what  his  peasants  eat,  and 
befriends  them,  and  stands  for  their  babies  in 
baptism,  and  sits  with  them  when  they're 
dying.  My  father  and  I  visited  him  about  two 
years  ago,  and  one  day  when  he  and  I  were 
taking  a  tramp,  I  suddenly  burst  out  that  I 
envied  him.  I  wanted  to  live  in  an  olive  garden, 
too,  and  wear  faded  blue  clothes,  and  eat 
grapes,  and  tramp  about  the  hills.    He  said  very 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  149 

simply  that  he  had  worked  for  twenty  years  to 
do  it.  'You  see,  I'm  a  rich  man,'  he  said,  'and 
it  seems  that  one  must  be  rich  in  this  world  be- 
fore one  dare  be  poor  from  choice.  I  couldn't 
do  this  if  people  didn't  know  that  I  could  have 
an  apartment  in  Paris,  and  servants,  and  motor- 
cars, and  all  the  rest  of  it.  It  would  hurt  my 
daughters  and  distress  my  friends.  There  are 
hundreds  and  thousands  of  unhappy  people  in 
the  world  who  can't  afford  to  be  poor,  and  if 
ever  you  get  a  chance,  you  try  it.  You'll  never 
be  rich  again.'  So  I  wrote  him  about  a  month 
ago  that  I  had  found  my  olive  garden,"  finished 
Sidney  contentedly,  "and  was  enjoying  it." 

"Captain  Burgoyne  was  older  than  you, 
Sid?"  Barry  questioned.  "Wouldn't  he  have 
loved  this  sort  of  life?" 

"Twenty  years  older,  yes;  but  he  wouldn't 

have  lived  here  for  one  dayP^  she  answered 

1 
vivaciously.    "He  was  a  diplomat,  a  courtier  to 


I50  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

his  finger-tips.  He  was  born  to  the  atmosphere 
of  hothouse  flowers,  and  salons,  and  delightful 
little  drawing-room  plots  and  gossip.  He  loved 
politics,  and  power,  and  women  in  full  dress, 
and  men  with  orders.  Of  course  I  was  very  new 
to  it  all,  but  he  liked  to  spoil  me,  draw  me  out. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  his  accident,  I  never  would 
have  grown  up  at  all,  I  dare  say.  As  it  was,  I 
was  more  like  his  mother.  We  went  to  Wash- 
ington for  the  season.  New  York  for  the  opera, 
England  for  autumn  visits,  Paris  for  the  spring: 
I  loved  to  make  him  happy,  Barry,  and  he 
wasn't  happy  except  when  we  were  going,  going, 
going.  He  was  exceptionally  popular;  he  had 
exceptional  friends,  and  he  couldn't  go  any- 
where without  me.    My  babies  were  with  his 

mother " 

She  paused,  turning  a  white  rose  between  her 

fingers.    "And  afterwards,"  she  said  presently, 

^"  there  was  Father.    And  Father  never  would 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  151 

spend  two  nights  in  the  same  place  if  he  could 
help  it." 

"I  wasn't  drawn  back  here  as  you  were," 
said  Barr}^  thoughtfully,  "I  liked  New  York;  I 
could  have  made  good  there  if  I'd  had  a  chance. 
It  made  me  sick  to  give  it  up,  then;  but  lately 
I've  been  feeling  differently.  A  newspaper's  a 
pretty  influential  thing,  wherever  it  is.  I've 
been  thinking  about  that  clubhouse  plan  of 
yours;  I  wish  to  the  Lord  that  we  could  do 
something  for  those  poor  kids  over  there. 
You're  right.  Those  girls  have  rotten  homes. 
The  whole  family  gathers  in  the  parlor  right 
after  dinner.  Pa  takes  his  shoes  off,  and  props 
his  socks  up  before  the  stove;  Ma  begins  to 
hear  a  kid  his  spelling;  and  other  kids  start  the 
graphophone,  and  Aggie  is  expected  to  ask  her 
young  man  to  walk  right  in.  So  after  that  she 
meets  him  in  the  street,  and  the  girls  begin  to 
talk  about  Aggie." 


152  THE  RICH  MRS,  BURGOYNE 

"Oh,  Barry,  I'm  so  glad  you're  interested!" 
Standing  a  step  above  him,  Sidney's  ardent  face 
was  very  close  to  his  own.  "Of  course  we  can 
do  it,"  she  said. 

"We!"  he  echoed  almost  bitterly.  "You'll 
do  it;  you're  the  one — "  He  broke  off  with  a 
short,  embarrassed  laugh.  "I  was  going  to  cut 
that  sort  of  thing  out,"  he  said  gruffly,  "but  all 
roads  lead  to  Rome,  it  seems.  I  can't  talk  to 
you  five  minutes  without — and  I've  got  to  go. 
I  said  I'd  look  in  at  the  office." 

"You  seem  to  be  afraid  to  be  friendly  lately, 
Barry,"  said  Mrs.  Burgoyne  in  a  hurt  voice, 
flinging  away  the  rose  she  had  been  holding, 
"but  don't  you  think  our  friendship  means 
something  to  me,  too?  I  don't  like  you  to  talk 
as  if  I  did  all  the  giving  and  you  all  the  taking. 
I  don't  know  how  the  girls  and  I  would  get 
along  without  your  advice  and  help  here  at  the 
Hall.    I  think,"  her  voice  broke  into  a  troubled 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  153 

laugh,  "I  think  you  forget  that  the  quality  of 
friendship  is  not  strained." 

"Sidney,"  he  said  with  sudden  resolution, 
turning  to  face  her  bravely,  "I  can't  be  just 
friends  with  you.  You're  so  much  the  finest,  so 
much  the  best — "  He  left  the  sentence  un- 
finished, and  began  again:  "You  have  a  hundred 
men  friends;  you  can't  realize  what  you  mean 
to  ine.  You — ^but  you  know  what  you  are,  and 
I'm  the  editor  of  a  mortgaged  country  paper,  a 
man  who  has  made  a  mess  of  things,  who  can't 
take  care  of  his  kid,  or  himself,  on  his  job 
without  help " 

"Barry — "  she  began  breathlessly,  but  he 
interrupted  her. 

"Listen  to  me,"  he  said  huskily,  taking  both 
her  warm  hands  in  his,  "I  want  to  tell  you 
something.  Say  that  I  was  weak  enough  to 
forget  all  that,  your  money  and  my  poverty, 
your  life  and  my  life,  everything  that  puts  you 


154  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

as  far  above  me  as  the  moon  and  stars;  say  that 


I  could  do  that — although  I  hope  it's  not  true — 
even  then — even  then  I'm  not  free,  Sidney. 
There  is  Hetty,  you  know;  there  is  Billy's 
mother " 

There  was  a  silence.  Sidney  slowly  freed  her 
hands,  laid  one  upon  her  heart  as  unconsciously 
as  a  hurt  child,  and  the  other  upon  his  shoulder. 
Her  troubled  eyes  searched  his  face. 

"Barry,"  she  said  with  a  httle  effort,  "have 
I  been  mistaken  in  thinking  Billy's  mother 
was  dead?" 

"Everyone  thinks  so,"  he  answered  with  a 
quick  rush  of  v/ords  that  showed  how  great 
the  relief  of  speech  was.  "Even  up  in  Hetty's 
home  town,  Plumas,  they  think  so.  I  wrote 
home  that  Hetty  had  left  me,  and  they  drew 
their  own  conclusions.  It  was  natural  enough; 
she  was  never  strong.  She  was  always  restless 
and  unhappy,  wanted  to  go  on  the  stage.    She 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  155 

did  go  on  the  stage,  you  know;  her  mother 
advised  it,  and  she — ^just  left  me.  We  were  in 
New  York,  then;  Bill  was  a  little  shaver;  I  was 
having  a  hard  time  with  a  new  job.  It  was  an 
awful  time!  After  a  few  months  I  brought  Bill 
back  here — he  wasn't  very  well — and  then  I 
found  that  everyone  thought  Hetty  was 
dead.  Then  her  mother  wrote  me,  and  said 
that  Hetty  had  taken  a  stage-name,  and  begged 
me  to  let  people  go  on  thinking  she  was  dead, 
and,  more  for  the  kid's  sake  than  Hetty's,  I  let 
things  stand.  But  Hetty's  in  California  now; 
she  and  her  mother  live  in  San  Francisco;  she 
is  still  studying  singing,  I  believe.  She  gets  the 
rent  from  two  flats  I  have  there.  But  she  never 
writes.  And  that,"  he  finished  grimly,  "is  the 
last  chapter  of  my  history." 

Sidney  still  stood  close  to  him,  earnest,  fra- 
grant, lovely,  in  her  white  gown.  And  even 
above   the   troubled   tumult   of   his   thoughts 


156  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

Barry  had  time  to  think  how  honest,  how  un- 
affected she  was,  to  stand  so,  making  no  attempt 
to  disguise  the  confusion  in  her  own  mind.  For 
a  long  time  there  was  no  sound  but  the  vague 
stir  of  the  night  about  them,  the  faint  breath  of 
some  wandering  breeze,  the  rusthng  flight  of 
some  small  animal  in  the  dark,  the  far-hushed, 
village  sounds. 

''Thank  you,  Barry,"  Sidney  said  at  length. 
"I'm  sorry.  I  am  glad  you  told  me.  Good- 
night." 

"  Good-night,"  he  said  almost  inaudibly.  He 
ran  down  the  steps  and  plunged  into  the  dark 
avenue  without  a  backward  look.  Sidney 
turned  slowly,  and  slowly  entered  the  dimly 
lighted  hall,  and  shut  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"Come  down  here — we're  down  by  the 
river!"  called  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  from  the  shade  of 
the  river  bank,  where  she  and  Mrs.  Lloyd  were 
busy  with  their  sewing.  "The  American  His- 
tory section  is  entertaining  the  club." 

"You  look  studious!"  laughed  Mrs.  Brown, 
coming  across  the  grass,  to  put  the  Brown  baby 
upon  his  own  sturdy  legs  from  her  tired  arms, 
and  sink  into  a  deep  law^n  chair.  The  June 
afternoon  was  warm,  but  it  was  delightfully 
cool  by  the  water.  "Is  that  the  club?"  she 
asked,  waving  toward  the  group  of  children  who 
were  wading  and  splashing  in  the  shallows  of 
the  loitering  river. 

"That's  the  American  History  Club,"  re- 
sponded Mrs.  Burgoyne,  as  she  flung  her  sewing 

157 


IS8  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

aside  and  snatched  the  baby.  "Paul,"  said 
she,  kissing  his  warm,  moist  neck,  "do  you 
truly  love  me  a  Httle  bit?" 

"Boy  ge'  down,"  said  Paul,  struggling  vio- 
lently. 

"Yes,  you  shall,  darling.  But  Hsten,  do  you 
want  to  hear  the  tick-tock?  Oh,  Paul,  sit  still 
just  one  minute!" 

"Awn  ge'  down,''  said  Paul,  distinctly,  every 
fibre  of  his  small  bemg  headed,  as  it  were,  for 
the  pebbly  shingle  where  it  was  daily  his  delight 
to  dig. 

"But  say  'deck'  first,  sweetheart,  say  'Deck, 
I  love  you, ' "  besought  the  mistress  of  the  Hall. 

"Deck!"  shouted  Paul  obediently,  eyes  on 
the  river. 

"And  a  sweet  kiss!"  further  stipulated  Mrs. 
Burgoyne,  and  grabbed  it  from  his  small, 
red,  unresponsive  mouth  before  she  let  him 
toddle  away.     "Yes,"  she  resumed,  going  on 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  159 

with  the  tucking  of  a  small  skirt,  "Joanna  and 
Jeanette  and  the  Adams  boy  have  to  write  an 
essay  this  week  about  the  Battle  of  Bunker  Hill, 
so  I  read  them  Holmes'  poem,  and  they  acted 
it  all  out.  You  never  saw  anything  so  delicious. 
Mrs.  Lloyd  came  up  just  in  time  to  see  Mabel 
limping  about  as  the  old  Corporal!  The  cherry 
tree  was  the  steeple,  of  course,  and  both  your 
sons,  you'll  be  ashamed  to  hear,  were  redcoats. 
Next  week  they  expect  to  do  Paul  Revere,  and  I 
daresay  we'll  have  the  entire  war,  before  we're 
through.    You  are  both  cordially  invited." 

"I'll  come,"  said  the  doctor's  wife,  smiling. 
"I  love  this  garden.  And  to  take  care  of  the 
boys  and  have  a  good  time  myself  is  more  than 
I  ever  thought  I'd  do  in  this  life!" 

"I  live  on  this  bank,"  said  Mrs.  Burgoyne, 
leaning  back  luxuriously  in  her  big  chair,  to 
stare  idly  up  through  the  apple-tree  to  the  blue 
sky.    "I'm  going  to  teach  the  children  all  their 


i6o  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

history  and  poetry  and  myths,  out  here.  It 
makes  it  so  real  to  them,  to  act  it.  Jo  and 
Ellen  and  I  read  Barbara  Frietchie  out  here  a 
few  weeks  ago,  and  they've  wanted  it  every 
day  or  two,  since." 

"We  won't  leave  anything  for  the  schools  to 
do,"  said  Httle  Mrs.  Brown. 

"All  the  better,"  Mrs.  Burgoyne  said,  cheer- 
fully. 

"Well,  excuse  me ! "  Mrs.  Lloyd,  holding  the 
linen  cuff  she  was  embroidering  at  arm's  length, 
and  studying  it  between  half-closed  Hds.  "I 
am  only  too  glad  to  turn  Mabel  over  to  some- 
body else  part  of  the  time.  You  don't  know 
what  she  is  when  she  begins  to  ask  ques- 
tions!" 

"I  don't  know  anything  more  tiring  than 
being  with  children  day  in  and  day  out,"  said 
Mrs.  Brown,  "it  gets  frightfully  on  your 
nerves!" 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  i6i 

"Oh,  I'd  like  about  twelve!"  said  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne. 


.5J/5J 


"Oh,  Mrs.  Burgoyne!  You  wouldn't!' 
"Yes,  I  would,  granted  a  moderately  secure 
income,  and  a  rather  roomy  country  home.  Al- 
though," added  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  temperately, 
"I  do  honestly  think  twelve  children  is  too  big 
a  family.  However,  one  may  be  greedy  in 
wishes!" 

"Would  you  want  a  child  of  yours  to  go  with- 
out proper  advantages,"  said  Mrs.  Lloyd,  a 
little  severely,  "would  you  want  more  than  one 
or  two,  if  you  honestly  felt  you  couldn't  give 
them  all  that  other  children  have?  Would  you 
be  perfectly  willing  to  have  your  children  feel 
at  a  disadvantage  with  all  the  children  of  your 
friends?  I  wouldn't,"  she  answered  herself 
positively,  "I  want  to  do  the  best  by  Mabel,  I 
want  her  to  have  everything,  as  she  grows  up, 
that  a  girl  ought  to  have.    That's  why  all  this 


1 62  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

nonsense  about  the  size  of  the  American  family 
makes  me  so  tired !  What's  the  use  of  bringing 
a  lot  of  children  into  the  world  that  are  going 
to  suffer  all  sorts  of  privations  when  they  get 
here?" 

''Privations  wouldn't  hurt  them,"  said  Mrs. 
Burgoyne,  sturdily,  "if  it  was  only  a  question 
of  patched  boots  and  made-over  clothes  and 
plain  food.  They  could  even  have  everything 
in  the  world  that's  worth  while." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  said  Mrs.  Lloyd, 
promptly  defensive. 

"I'd  gather  them  about  me,"  mused  Sidney 
Burgoyne,  dreamily,  her  eyes  on  the  sky,  a 
whimsical  smile  playing  about  her  mouth, 
"I'd  gather  all  seven  together " 

"Oh,  you've  come  down  to  seven?"  chuckled 
Mrs.  Brown. 

"Well,  seven's  a  good  Bibhcal  number," 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  said  serenely,  " — and  I'd  say 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  163 

'Children,  all  music  is  yours,  all  art  is  yours, 
all  literature  is  yours,  all  history  and  all  phi- 
losophy is  waiting  to  prove  to  you  that  in  start- 
ing poor,  healthy,  and  born  of  intelligent  and 
devoted  parents,  you  have  a  long  head-start  in 
the  race  of  Hfe.  All  life  is  ahead  of  you,  friend- 
ships, work,  play,  tramps  through  the  green 
country  in  the  spring,  fires  in  winter,  nights 
under  the  summer  stars.  Choose  what  you  like, 
and  work  for  it,  your  father  and  I  can  keep  you 
warm  and  fed  through  your  childhoods,  and 
after  that,  nothing  can  stop  you  if  you  are  will- 
ing to  work  and  wait." 

"And  then  suppose  your  son  asks  you  why 
he  can't  go  camping  with  the  other  boys  in 
summer  school,  and  your  daughter  wants  to 
join  the  cotillion?"  asked  Mrs.  Lloyd. 

"Why,  it  wouldn't  hurt  them  to  hear  me  say 
no,"  said  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  in  surprise.  "I  never 
can    understand    why    parents,    who    practise 


1 64  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

every  imaginable  self-denial  themselves,  are 
always  afraid  the  first  renunciation  will  kill  their 
child.  Sooner  or  later  they  are  going  to  learn 
what  life  is.  I  know  a  httle  girl  whose  parents 
are  multi-millionaires,  and  who  is  going  to  be 
told  some  day  soon  that  her  two  older  sisters 
aren't  living  abroad,  as  she  thinks,  but  shut  up 
for  life,  within  a  few  miles  of  her.  What  worse 
blow  could  life  give  to  the  poorest  girl?" 

"Horrors!"  murmured  Mrs.  Brown. 

"And  those  are  common  cases,"  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne  said  eagerly,  "  I  knew  of  so  many !  Pretty 
little  girls  at  European  watering-places  whose 
mothers  are  spending  thousands,  and  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  dollars  to  get  out  of  their  blood 
what  no  earthly  power  can  do  away  with.  Sons 
of  rich  fathers  whose  valets  themselves  wouldn't 
change  places  with  them!  And  then  the  fine, 
clean,  industrious  middle-classes — or  upper 
classes,  really,  for  the  blood  in  their  veins  is  the 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  165 

finest  in  the  world — are  afraid  to  bring  children 
into  the  world  because  of  dancing  cotillions 
and  motor-cars!" 

"Well,  of  course  I  have  only  four,"  said  Mrs. 
Brown,  "but   I've  been  married   only   seven 

years " 

,  Mrs.  Burgoyne  laughed,  came  to  a  full  stop, 
and  reddened  a  little  as  she  went  back  busily  to 
her  sewing. 

"Why  do  you  let  me  run  on  at  such  a  rate; 
you  know  my  hobbies  now!"  she  reproached 
them.  "I  am  not  quite  sane  on  the  subject  of 
what  ought  to  be  done — and  isn't — in  that 
good  old  institution  called  woman's  sphere." 

"That  sounds  vaguely  famihar,"  said  Mrs. 
Lloyd. 

"Woman's  sphere?  Yes,  we  hate  the  sound 
of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  "just  as  a  man  who 
has  left  his  family  hates  to  talk  of  home  ties, 
and  just  as  a  deserter  hates  the  conversation  to 


1 66  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

come  around  to  the  army.  But  it's  true.  Our 
business  is  children,  and  kitchens,  and  hus- 
bands, and  meals,  and  we  detest  it  all " 

"I  like  my  husband  a  Httle,"  said  Mrs. 
Brown,  in  a  meek  little  voice. 

They  all  laughed.  Then  said  Mrs.  Lloyd, 
gazing  sentimentally  toward  the  river  bank, 
where  her  small  daughter's  twisted  curls  were 
tossing  madly  in  a  game  of  "tag": 

"  I  shall  henceforth  regard  Mabel  as  a  possible 
Joan  of  Arc." 

"One  of  those  boys  may  be  a  Lincoln,  or  a 
Thomas  Edison,  or  a  Mark  Twain,"  Sidney 
Burgoyne  added,  half-laughing,  "and  then 
we'll  feel  just  a  little  ashamed  for  having  turned 
him  complacently  over  to  a  nurse  or  a  boarding 
school.  Of  course,  it  leaves  us  free  to  go  to  the 
club  and  hear  a  paper  on  the  childhood  of 
Napoleon,  carefully  compiled  years  after  his 
death.    Why,  men  take  heavy  chances  in  their 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  167 

work,  they  follow  up  the  shghtest  opening,  but 
we  women  throw  away  opportunities  to  be 
great,  every  day  of  our  lives!  Scientists  and 
theorists  are  spending  years  of  their  lives 
pondering  over  every  separate  phase  of  the  de- 
velopment of  children,  but  we,  who  have  the 
actual  material  in  our  hands,  turn  it  over  to 
nursemaids!" 

"Yes,  but  lots  of  children  disappoint  their 
parents  bitterly,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  "and  lots 
of  good  mothers  have  bad  children!" 

"I  never  knew  a  good  mother  to  have  a  bad 
child — "  began  Mrs.  Burgoyne. 

"Well,  I  have.  Thousands,"  Mrs.  Lloyd  said 
promptly. 

"Oh,  no!  Not  a  bad  child,"  her  hostess  said, 
quickly.  "A  disappointing  child  perhaps,  or  a 
strong-willed  child,  you  mean.  But  no  good 
mother — and  that  doesn't  mean  merely  a  good 
woman,    or    a    church-going    woman! — could 


1 68  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

possibly  have  a  really  bad  child.  'By  their 
fruits/  you  know.  And  then  of  course  we 
haven't  a  perfect  system  of  nursery  training 
yet;  we  expect  angels.  We  judge  by  little,  in- 
essential things,  we're  exacting  about  unim- 
portant trifles.  We  don't  v/ant  our  sons  to 
marry  little  fluffy-headed  dolls,  although  the 
dolls  may  make  them  very  good  wives.  We 
don't  want  them  to  make  a  success  of  real 
estate,  if  the  tradition  of  the  house  is  for  the  bar 
or  the  practice  of  medicine.  And  we  lose  heart 
at  the  first  suspicion  of  bad  company,  or  of 
drinking;  although  the  best  men  in  the  world 
had  those  temptations  to  fight!  But,  anyway, 
I  would  rather  try  at  that  and  fail,  than  do 
anything  else  in  the  world.  My  failures  at 
least  might  save  some  other  woman's  children. 
And  it's  just  that  much  more  done  for  the  world 
than  guarding  the  valuable  life  of  a  Pomeranian, 
or  going  to  New  York  for  new  furs!"    They  all 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  169 

laughed,  for  Mrs.  Willard  White's  latest  an- 
nouncement of  her  plans  had  awakened  some 
comment  among  them. 

"Mother,  am  I  interrupting  you?"  said  a 
patient  voice  at  this  point.  Ellen  Burgoyne, 
rosy,  dishevelled,  panting,  stood  some  ten  feet 
away,  waiting  patiently  a  chance  to  enter  the 
conversation. 

"No,  my  darling."  Her  mother  held  out  a 
welcoming  hand.  "Oh,  I  see,"  she  added, 
glancing  at  her  watch.  "It's  half-past  four. 
Yes,  you  can  go  up  for  the  gingerbread  now. 
You  mustn't  carry  the  milk,  you  know,  Ellen." 

"Mother,"  said  Ellen,  flashing  into  radiance 
at  the  slightest  encouragement,  "have  you  told 
them  about  our  Flower  Festibul  plans?" 

"Oh,  not  yet!"  Mrs.  Burgoyne  heaved  a  great 
sigh.  "  I'm  afraid  I've  committed  myself  to  an 
entry  for  the  parade,"  she  told  the  others  nie- 
fuUy. 


lyo  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

"Oh,  don't  tell  me  you're  going  to  compete!" 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Brown. 

"Well,  we're  rather  afraid  we  are!"  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne's  voice,  if  fearful,  was  hopeful  too,  for 
Ellen's  face  was  a  study.  "Why,  is  it  such  a 
terrible  effort?" 

"Oh,  yes,  it's  an  appalling  amount  of  strug- 
gle and  fuss,  there's  all  sorts  of  red  tape, 
and  the  flowers  are  so  messy,"  answered  the 
doctor's  wife  warningly,  "and  this  year  will  be 
worse  than  ever.  The  Women's  Club  of  Apple 
Creek  is  going  to  enter  a  carriage,  and  you 
know  our  club  is  to  have  the  White's  motor; 
it  will  be  perfectly  exquisite!  It's  to  be  all 
pink  carnations,  and  Mr.  White's  nephew,  a 
Berkeley  boy,  and  some  of  his  friends,  all 
in  white  flannels,  are  going  to  run  it.  Doc- 
tor says  there'll  be  a  hundred  entries  this 
year." 

"Well,  I'm  afraid  I'm  in  for  it,"  said  Mrs. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  171 

Burgoyne,  with  a  sigh.  "I  haven't  the  least 
idea  in  the  world  what  I'm  going  to  do.  It 
isn't  as  if  we  even  had  a  surrey.  But  I  really 
was  involved  before  I  had  time  to  think.  You 
know  I've  been  trying,  with  some  of  my  spare 
time,"  her  eyes  twinkled,  "to  get  hold  of  these 
little  factory  and  cannery  girls  over  in  Old 
Paloma." 

"You  told  me,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  "but  I 
don't  see  how  that " 

"Well,  you  see,  their  ringleader  has  been 
particularly  ungracious  to  me.  A  fine,  superb, 
big  creature  she  is,  named  Alice  Carter.  This 
Alice  came  up  to  the  children  and  me  in  the 
street  the  other  day,  and  told  me,  in  the  gruffest 
manner,  that  she  was  interested  in  a  little 
crippled  girl  over  there,  and  had  promised  to 
take  her  to  see  the  Flower  Festival.  But  it 
seems  the  child's  mother  was  afraid  to  trust  her 
to  Alice  in  the  crowd  and  heat.    Quite  simply 


172  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

she  asked  me  if  I  could  manage  it.  I  was 
tremendously  touched,  and  we  went  to  see  the 
child.  She's  a  poor,  brave  little  scrap — twelve 
years  old,  did  she  say.  Baby?" 

"Going  on  thirteen,"  said  Ellen  rapidly; 
"and  her  father  is  dead,  and  her  mother  works, 
and  she  takes  care  of  such  a  fat  baby,  and  she 
is  very  gen-tul  with  him,  isn't  she,  Mother? 
And  she  cried  when  Mother  gave  her  books, 
and  she  can't  eat  her  lunch  because  her  back 
aches,  but  she  gave  the  baby  his  lunch,  and 
Mother  asked  her  if  she  would  let  a  doctor  fix 
her  back,  and  she  said,  'Oh,  no!' — didn't  she, 
Mother?  She  just  twisted  and  twisted  her 
hands,  and  said,  'I  can't.'  And  Mother  said, 
'Mary,  if  you  will  be  a  brave  girl  about  the 
doctor,  I  will  make  you  a  pink  dress  and  a 
wreath  of  roses,  and  you  shall  ride  with  the 
others  in  the  Flower  Festibul!'  And  she  just 
said,  'Oo-oo!'— didn't  she.  Mother?    And  she 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  173 

said  she  thought  God  sent  you,  didn't  she, 
Mother?" 

"She  did."  Mrs.  Burgoyne  smiled  through 
wet  lashes.  Mrs.  Brown  wiped  her  own  eyes 
against  the  baby's  fluffy  mop.  "She's  a  most 
pathetic  httle  creature,  this  Mary  Scott,"  went 
on  the  other  woman  when  Ellen  had  dashed 
away,  "and  I'm  afraid  she's  not  the  only  one. 
There's  my  Miss  Davids'  little  sister;  if  I  took 
her  in,  Miss  Davids  would  be  free  for  the  day; 
and  there's  a  little  deaf-mute  whose  mother  runs 
the  bakery.  And  I  told  Mary  we'd  manage  the 
baby,  too,  and  that  if  she  knew  any  other  chil- 
dren who  positively  couldn't  come  any  other 
way,  she  must  let  me  know.  Of  course  the 
school  children  are  cared  for,  they  will  have 
seats  right  near  the  grand  stand,  and  sing,  and 
so  on.  But  I  am  really  terrified  about  it,  you'll 
have  to  help  me  out." 

'I'll  do  anything,"  Mrs.  Brown  promised. 


am 


174  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

I'll  do  anything  I  caw,"  said  Mrs.  Lloyd, 


(irn 


modestly,  "I  loathe  and  abominate  children 
unless  they're  decently  dressed  and  smell  of  soap 
— but  I'll  run  a  machine,  if  some  one'll  see  that 
they  don't  swarm  over  me." 

"I'll  put  a  barbed  wire  fence  around  you!" 
promised  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  gaily. 

Mrs.  Carew,  coming  up,  as  she  expressed  it, 
"to  gather  up  some  children,"  was  decidedly 
optimistic  about  the  plan.  "Nobody  ever  uses 
hydrangeas,  because  you  can't  make  artificial 
ones  to  fill  in  with,"  she  said,  "so  you  can  get 
barrels  of  them."  Mrs.  Burgoyne  was  enthu- 
siastic over  hydrangeas,  "But  it's  not  the  fancy 
touches  that  scare  me,"  she  confessed;  "it's  the 
awful  practical  side." 

"What  does  Barry  think?"  Mrs.  Carew  pres- 
ently asked  innocently.  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  sud- 
denly rosy  face  was  not  unobserved  by  any  of 
the  others. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  175 

"I  haven't  seen  him  for  several  days,  not 
since  the  night  of  my  dinner,"  she  admitted; 
"I've  been  lazy,  sending  my  work  down  to  the 
oflSce.    But  I  will  see  him  right  away." 

"He's  the  one  really  to  have  ideas,"  Mrs. 
Brown  assured  her. 


CHAPTER  XII 

So  Barry  was  invited  up  to  the  Hall  to  dinner, 
and  found  himself  so  instantly  swept  into  the 
plan  that  he  had  no  time  to  be  self-conscious. 
Dinner  was  served  on  the  side  porch,  and  the 
sunlight  filtered  across  the  white  cloth,  and 
turned  the  garden  into  a  place  of  enchantment. 
When  Billy  and  the  small  girls  had  seized  two 
cookies  and  two  peaches  apiece,  and  retired  to 
the  lawn  to  enjoy  them,  he  and  Sidney  sat 
talking  on  in  the  pleasant  dusk. 

"You've  asked  eight,  so  far,"  he  said,  as  she 
was  departing  for  the  office  an  hour  or  so  after 
dinner  was  finished,  "but  do  you  think  that's 
all?" 

"Oh,  it  positively  must  be!"   Sidney  said 

virtuously,  but  there  was  a  wicked  gleam  in  her 

176 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  177 

eye  that  prepared  him  for  her  sudden  descent 
upon  the  ofi&ce  two  days  later,  with  the  startHng 
news  that  now  she  had  positively  stopped,  but 
fourteen  children  had  been  asked ! 

Barry,  rather  to  her  surprise,  remained  calm. 

"Well,  I've  got  an  idea,"  he  said  presently, 
'Hhat  will  make  that  all  right,  fourteen  children 
or  twenty,  it  won't  make  any  difference.  Only, 
it  may  not  appeal  to  you." 

"Oh,  it  will — and  you  are  an  angel!"  said 
the  lady  fervently. 

"I've  got  a  friend  up  the  country  here  in  a 
lumber-mill,"  Barry  explained,  "Joe  Painter — 
he  hauls  logs  down  from  the  forest  to  the  river, 
with  a  team  of  eight  oxen.  Now,  if  he'd  lend 
them,  and  you  got  a  hay- wagon  from  Old 
Paloma,  you  wouldn't  have  any  trouble  at  all." 

"  Oh,  but  Barry,"  she  gasped,  her  face  radiant, 
"would  he  lend  them?" 

"I  think  he  would;  he'd  have  to  come  too, 


1 78  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

you  know,  and  drive  them.    I'll  ride  up  and  see, 
anyway." 

*'Oxen,"  mused  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  "how  per- 
fectly glorious!  The  children  will  go  wild  with 
joy.    And,  you  see,  my  Indian  boys " 

''Your  what?'' 

"I  didn't  mention  them,"  said  Sidney  se- 
renely, "because  they'll  walk  alongside,  and 
won't  count  in  the  load.  But,  you  see,  some  of 
those  nice  little  mill-boys  who  don't  go  to 
school  heard  the  girls  talking  about  it,  and  one 
of  them  asked  me — so  wistfully! — if  there  was 
anything  they  could  do.  I  immediately  thought 
of  Indian  costumes." 

"But  how  the  deuce  will  you  get  the  costumes 
made?"  said  Barry,  drawing  a  sheet  of  paper 
toward  him,  and  beginning  some  calculations, 
with  an  anxious  eye. 

"Why,  it's  just  cheese-cloth  for  the  girls. 
Mrs.  Brown  and  I  have  our  machines  up  in  the 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  179 

barn,  and  Mrs.  Carew  and  Mrs.  Adams  will 
come  up  and  help,  there's  not  much  to  that! 
Barr}'',  if  you  will  really  get  us  this — this  ox- 
man — nothing  else  wall  worry  me  at  all." 

"You'll  have  to  put  the  beasts  up  in  your 
barn."  . 

"Oh,  surely!  Ask  him  what  they  eat.  Oh, 
Barry,  we  must  have  them!  Think  how  pictur- 
esque they'll  be!  I've  been  thinking  my  entry 
would  be  a  disgrace  to  the  parade,  but  I  don't 
beheve  it  will  be  so  bad.  Barry,  when  will  we 
know  about  it?" 

''You  can  count  on  it,  I  guess.  Joe  won't 
refuse,"  Barry  said,  with  his  lazy  smile. 

"Oh,  you're  an  angel!  I'm  going  shopping 
this  instant.  Barry,  there  will  be  room  now  for 
my  Ellen,  and  Billy,  and  Dicky  Carew,  won't 
there?  It  seems  their  hearts  are  bursting  with 
the  desire.  Bunting,"  murmured  Sidney,  be- 
ginning a  list,  "cheese-cloth,  pink,  blue,  and 


i8o  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

cream,  bolts  of  it;  twdne,  beads,  leather, 
feathers;  some  big  white  hats;  ice-cream, 
extra  milk " 

"Hold  on!    What  for?" 

"Why,  they  have  to  have  something  to  eat 
afterward,"  she  reproached  him.  "We're  going 
to  have  a  picnic  up  at  the  Hall.  Then  those 
that  can  will  join  their  people  for  the  fireworks, 
and  the  others  will  be  taken  home  to  Old  Pa- 
loma.  The  httle  Scott  girl  will  stay  with  Ellen 
and  Jo  overnight;  Mammy  Currey  will  look 
after  them,  and  they'll  watch  the  fireworks  fron? 
my  porch.  I've  written  to  ask  Doctor  Young- 
he's  the  best  in  San  Francisco — to  come  up 
from  the  city  next  day  to  see  what  he  thinks 
can  be  done  for  Mary  Scott." 

"You  get  a  lot  of  fun  out  of  your  money, 
don't  you,  Sidney?"  said  Barry,  watching  her 
amusedly,  as  she  tucked  the  list  into  her  purse 
and  arose  with  a  great  air  of  business. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  i8i 

"More  than  any  one  woman  deserves,"  she 
answered  soberly. 

"Walter,"  said  Anne  Pratt  to  her  brother,  one 
evening  about  this  time,  as  she  decorously  filled 
his  plate  from  the  silver  tureen,  "have  you 
heard  that  Mrs.  Burgoyne  has  gathered  up 
about  twenty  children  in  Old  Paloma — cripples, 
and  orphans,  and  I  don't  know  what  all! — and 
is  getting  up  a  wagon  for  the  Flower  Festival? 
I  was  up  at  the  Hall  to-day,  and  they're  work- 
ing like  beavers." 

"Carew  said  something  about  it,"  said 
Walter  Pratt.  "Seems  a  good  idea.  Those 
poor  little  kids  over  there  don't  have  much 
fun." 

"You  never  said  so  before,  Walter,"  his 
sister  returned  almost  resentfully. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  shouldn't  have,"  said 
Walter  literally.    "It's  true." 


1 82  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

"If  we  did  anything  for  any  children,  it 
ought  to  be  Lizzie's,"  said  Miss  Pratt  uncom- 
fortably, after  a  pause. 

"  I  wish  to  the  Lord  we  could  do  something  for 
Lizzie'skids,"  her  brother  observed  suddenly.  "I 
suppose  it  would  kill  you  to  have  'em  up  here?" 

"Kill  me!"  Miss  Anne  echoed  with  painful 
eagerness,  and  with  a  sudden  tremble  of  her 
thin,  long  hand.  "I  don't  know  why  it  should; 
there  never  were  better  behaved  children  born. 
I  don't  like  Lizzie's  husband,  and  never  shall;" 
she  rushed  on,  "but  seeing  those  children  up  at 
the  Hall  to-day  made  me  think  of  Betty,  and 
Hope,  and  Davy,  cooped  up  down  there  in 
town.  They'd  love  the  Flower  Festival,  and  I 
could  take  them  up  to  the  Hall,  and  Nanny 
would  be  wild  with  joy  to  have  Lizzie's  children 
here;  she'd  bake  cookies  and  gingerbread — " 
A  flush  had  come  into  her  faded,  cool  cheek. 
"Wouldn't  they  be  in  your  way?    You  really 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  183 

wouldn't  mind — you  won't  change  your  mind 
about  it,  Walt?"  she  said  timidly. 

''Change  my  mind!  Why,  I'll  love  to  have 
them  running  round  here,"  he  answered  warmly. 
"Write  Lizzie  to-night,  and  tell  her  I've  got  to 
go  down  Tuesday,  and  I'll  bring  'em  up." 

"I'll  tell  her  that  just  the  things  they  have 
will  be  quite  good  enough,"  said  Miss  Pratt. 
"The  Burgoyne  children  just  wear  play- 
ginghams — I'll  get  them  anything  else  they 
need!" 

"It  won't  interfere  with  your  club  work, 
Anne?" 

"Not  in  the  least!"  She  was  sure  of  that. 
".\nd  anyway,"  she  went  on  decidedly,  "I'm 
not  going  to  the  club  so  much  this  summer. 
Mary  Brown  and  I  went  yesterday,  and  there 
was — well,  I  suppose  it  was  a  good  paper  on 
'The  Mind  of  the  Child,'  by  Miss  Sarah  Rich. 
But  it  seemed  so  flat.    And  Mary  Brown  said. 


184  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

coming  away,  'I  think  Doctor  and  I  will  still 
come  to  the  monthly  receptions,  but  I  believe 
I  won't  listen  to  any  more  papers  like  that. 
They're  all  very  well  for  people  who  have  no 
children '" 

"Well,  by  Tuesday  night  you'll  have  three!" 
said  Walter,  with  what  was  for  him  great  gaiety 
of  manner. 

"Walter,"  his  sister  suggested  nervously, 
"you'll  be  awfully  affectionate  with  Lizzie, 
won't  you?  Be  sure  to  tell  her  that  we  wa7it 
them;  and  tell  her  that  they'll  be  playing  up  at 
the  Hall  all  summer,  as  we  used  to.  You  know, 
I've  been  thinking,  Walter,"  went  on  the  poor 
lady,  with  her  nose  suddenly  growing  red  and 
her  eyes  watering,  "that  I've  not  been  a  very 
good  sister  to  Lizzie.  She's  the  youngest,  and 
Mother — Mother  wasn't  here  to  advise  her 
about  her  marriage,  and — and  now  I  don't 
write  her;  and  she  wrote  me  that  Betty  had  a 


THE  RICH  MRS,  BURGOYNE  185 

cough,  and  Davy  was  so  noisy  indoors  in  wet 
weather— and  I  just  go  to  the  Club  to  hear 
papers  upon  'Napoleon'  and  'The  Mind  of  the 
Child.'"  And  Miss  Anne,  beginning  to  cry 
outright,  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  and  covered 
her  face  with  her  handkerchief. 

"Well,  Anne— well,  Anne,"  her  brother 
said  huskily,  "we'll  make  it  up  now.  Where 
are  you  going  to  put  them?  "  he  presently  added, 
with  an  inspiration. 

Miss  Pratt  straightened  up,  blew  her  nose, 
wiped  her  eyes,  and  rang  for  the  maid. 

"Betty  and  Hope  in  the  big  front  room — " 
she  began  happily. 

Another  brief  conversation,  this  time  between 
George  Carew  and  his  wife,  was  indicative  of  a 
certain  change  of  view-point  that  was  affecting 
the  women  of  Santa  Paloma  in  these  days. 
Mr.  Carew,  coming  home  one  evening,  found  a 


1 86  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

very  demure  and  charming  figure  seated  on  the 
porch.  Mrs.  Carew's  gown  was  simplicity 
itself:  a  thin,  dotted,  dark  blue  silk,  with  a  deep 
childish  lace  collar  and  cuffs. 
'  "You  look  terribly  sweet,  Jen,"  said  Mr. 
Carew;  "you  look  out  of  sight."  And  when  he 
came  downstairs  again,  and  they  were  at 
dinner,  he  returned  to  the  subject  with,  "Jen, 
I  haven't  seen  you  look  so  sweet  for  a  long  time. 
What  is  that,  a  new  dress?  Is  that  for  the  re- 
ception on  the  Fourth?  Jen,  didn't  you  have  a 
dress  like  that  when  we  were  first  married?" 
'  "Sorrel  made  this,  and  it  only  cost  sixty 
dollars,"  said  Mrs.  Carew. 

"Well,  get  her  to  make  you  another,"  her 
husband  said  approvingly.  At  which  Mrs. 
Carew  laughed  a  little  shakily,  and  came  around 
the  table,  and  put  her  arms  about  him  and  said: 

"Oh,  George,  you  dear  old  bat!  Miss  Pom- 
eroy  made  this,  upstairs  here,  in  three  days,  and 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  187 

the  silk  cost  nine  dollars.  I  did  have  a  dress 
like  this  in  my  trousseau — my  first  silk — and 
I  thought  it  was  wonderful;  and  I  think  you're 
a  darling  to  remember  it;  and  I  am  going  to 
wear  this  on  the  Fourth.  It's  nice  enough, 
isn't  it?" 

"Nice    enough!      You'll    be    the    prettiest 
woman  there,"  stated  Mr.  Carew  positively. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

The  earliest  daylight  of  July  Fourth  found 
Santa  Paloma  already  astir.  Dew  was  heavy 
on  the  ropes  of  flowers  and  greens,  and  the 
flags  and  bunting  that  made  briUiant  all  the 
Une  of  the  day's  march;  and  long  scarfs  of  fog 
lingered  on  the  hills,  but  for  all  that,  and  despite 
the  delicious  fragrant  chill  of  the  morning  air, 
nobody  doubted  that  the  day  would  be  hot  and 
cloudless,  and  the  evening  perfect  for  fireworks. 
Lawn-sprinklers  began  to  whir  busily  in  the 
sweet  shaded  gardens  long  before  the  sunlight 
reached  them;  windows  and  doors  were  flung 
open  to  the  air;  women,  sweeping  garden-paths 
and  sidewalks  with  gay  energy,  called  greetings 
up  and  down  the  street  to  one  another.  Chairs 
were  dragged  out-of-doors;  limp  flags  began  to 

i88 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  189 

stir  in  the  sunny  air;  other  flags  squeakily 
mounted  their  poles.  At  every  window  bunting 
showed;  the  schoolhouse  was  half-hidden  in  red, 
white,  and  blue;  the  women's  clubhouse  was 
festooned  with  evergreens  and  Japanese  lan- 
terns; and  the  Mail  office,  the  grand  stand 
opposite,  the  shops,  and  the  bank,  all  fluttered 
with  gay  colors.  Children  shouted  and  scamp- 
ered everywhere;  gathered  in  fascinated  groups 
about  the  ice-cream  and  candy  and  popcorn 
booths  that  sprang  up  at  every  corner;  met 
arriving  cousins  and  aunts  at  the  train;  ran  on 
last-minute  errands.  Occasionally  a  whole 
package  of  exploding  firecrackers  smote  the 
warm  still  air. 

By  half-past  ten  every  window  on  the  line  of 
march,  every  dooryard  and  porch,  had  its 
group  of  watchers.  Wagons  and  motor-cars, 
from  the  surrounding  villages  and  ranches, 
blocked  the  side  streets.     It  was  very  warm. 


IQO  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

and  fans    and   lemonade   had  a   lively   sale. 

From  the  two  available  windows  of  the  Mail 
office,  three  persons,  as  eager  as  the  most  eager 
child,  watched  the  gathering  crowds,  and 
waited  for  the  Flower  Parade.  They  were 
Mrs.  Apostleman,  stately  in  black  lace,  and 
regally  fanning,  Sidney  Burgoyne,  looking  her 
very  prettiest  in  crisp  white,  with  a  scarlet 
scarf  over  her  arm,  and  Barry  Valentine,  who 
looked  unusually  festive  himself  in  white 
flannels.    All  three  were  in  wild  spirits. 

"Hark,  here  they  come!"  said  Sidney  at  last, 
drawing  her  head  in  from  a  long  inspection  cf 
the  street.  She  had  been  waving  and  calling 
greetings  in  every  direction  for  a  pleasant  hiAl- 
hour.  Now  eleven  had  boomed  from  the  town- 
hall  clock,  and  a  general  restlessness  and 
wiltedness  began  to  affect  the  waiting 
crowds. 

Barry  immediately  dangled  almost  his  entire 


FROM   THE  TWO   AVAILABLE   WINDOWS   OF   THE      MAIL      OFFICE,   THREE 
PERSONS,  AS  EAGER  AS  THE   MOST  EAGER  CHILD,   WATCHED  THE 
GATHERING    CROWDS,    AND    WAITED    FOR    THE     FLOWER   PARADE. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  191 

length  across  the  window  sill,  and  screwed  his 
person  about  for  a  look. 

"H'yar  dey  come,  li'l  miss,  sho*s  yo'  bawn!" 
he  announced  joyfully.    "There's  the  band!"    | 

Here  they  came,  sure  enough,  under  the  flags 
and  garlands,  through  the  noonday  heat.  Only 
vague  brassy  notes  and  the  general  craning  of 
necks  indicated  their  approach  now;  but  in 
another  five  minutes  the  uniformed  band  was 

actually  in  view,  and  the  National  Guard  after 

1 

it,  tremendously  popular,  and  the  Native  Sons, 
with  another  band,  and  the  veterans,  thin, 
silver-headed  old  men  in  half  a  dozen  carriages, 
and  more  open  carriages.  One  held  the  Gov- 
ernor and  his  wife,  the  former  bowing  and  smil- 
ing right  and  left,  and  saluted  by  the  rising 
school  children,  when  he  seated  himself  in  the 
judges'  stand,  with  the  shrill,  thrilling  notes  of 
the  national  anthem. 
And  then  another  band,  and — at  last! — the 


192  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

slow-moving,  flower-covered  carriages  and  mo- 
tors, a  long,  wonderful,  brilliant  line  of  them. 
White-clad  children  in  rose-smothered  pony- 
carts,  pretty  girls  in  a  setting  of  scarlet  carna- 
tions, more  pretty  girls  half-hidden  in  bobbing 
and  nodding  daisies — every  one  more  charming 
than  the  last.  There  were  white  horses  as 
dazzling  as  soap  and  powder  could  make  them; 
horses  whose  black  flanks  glistened  as  dark  as 
coal,  and  there  was  a  tandem  of  cream-colored 
horses  that  tossed  rosettes  of  pink  Shirley 
poppies  in  their  ears.  The  Whites'  motor-car, 
covered  with  pink  carnations,  and  filled  with 
good-looking  lads  flying  the  colors  of  the 
Women's  Club  and  the  nation's  flag,  won  a 
special  round  of  applause.  Mrs.  Burgoyne  and 
Barry  loyally  clapped  for  the  Pratt  motor-car, 
from  which  Joanna  Burgoyne  and  Lizzie  Pratt's 
children  v/ere  beaming  upon  the  world. 

"But  what  are  they  halting  for,  and  what  are 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  193 

they  clapping?"  Sidney  presently  demanded, 
when  a  break  in  the  line  and  a  sudden  out- 
burst of  cheering  and  applause  interrupted  the 
parade.  Barry  again  hung  at  a  dangerous 
angle  from  the  window.  Presently  he  sat  back, 
his  face  one  broad  smile. 

"It's  us,"  he  remarked  simply.  "Wait  until 
you  see  us;  we're  the  cream  of  the  whole  show!" 

Too  excited  to  speak,  Sidney  knelt  breathless 
at  the  sill,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  spot  where 
the  cause  of  the  excitement  must  appear.  She 
was  perhaps  the  only  one  of  all  the  watchers 
who  did  not  applaud,  as  the  eight  powerful  oxen 
came  slowly  dowm  the  sunshiny  street,  guided 
by  the  tall,  lean  driver  who  walked  beside  them, 
and  dragging  the  great  wagon  and  its  freight  of 
rapturous  children. 

Only  an  old  hay- wagon,  after  all;  only  a  team 
of  shabby  oxen,  such  as  a  thousand  lumber- 
camps  in  California  might  supply;  only  a  score 


194  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

or  more  of  the  ill-nourished,  untrained  children 
of  the  very  poor;  but  what  an  enchantment  of 
love  and  hope  and  summer-time  had  been  flung 
over  them  all!  The  body  of  the  wagon  was 
entirely  hidden  by  exquisite  hydrangeas;  the 
wheels  were  moving  disks  of  the  pale  pink  and 
blue  blossoms;  the  oxen,  their  horns  gilded, 
their  polished  hoofs  twinkling  as  they  moved, 
wore  yokes  that  seemed  solidly  made  of  the 
flowers,  and  great  ropes  of  blossoms  hid  the 
swinging  chains.  Over  each  animal  a  brilliant 
cover  had  been  flung;  and  at  the  head  of  each 
a  young  Indian  boy,  magnificent  in  wampum 
and  fringed  leather,  feathers  and  beads,  walked 
.  sedately.  The  children  were  grouped,  pyramid- 
fashion,  on  the  wagon,  in  a  nest  of  hydrangea 
blooms,  the  pink,  and  cream,  and  blue  of  their 
gowns  blending  with  the  flowers  all  about  them, 
the  sunlight  shining  full  in  their  happy  eyes. 
Over  their  shoulders  were  garlands  of  poppies, 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  195 

roses,  sweet-peas,  daisies,  carnations,  lilies,  or 
other  blossoms;  their  hands  were  full  of  flowers. 
But  it  was  the  radiance  of  their  faces  that  shone 
brightest,  after  all.  It  was  the  little  consump- 
tive's ecstatic  smile,  as  she  sat  resting  against 
an  invisible  support;  it  was  the  joy  in  Mary 
Scott's  thin  eager  face,  framed  now  in  her 
loosened  dark  hair,  and  with  the  shadow,  like 
her  crutch,  laid  aside  for  a  while,  that  somehow 
brought  tears  to  the  eyes  that  watched.  Santa 
Paloma  cheered  and  applauded  these  forgotten 
children  of  hers;  and  the  children  laughed  and 
waved  their  hands  in  return. 

Youth  and  happiness  and  summer-time  in- 
carnate, the  vision  went  on  its  way,  down  the 
bright  street;  and  other  carriages  followed  it, 
and  were  praised  as  those  that  had  gone  before 
had  been.  But  no  entry  in  any  flower  parade 
that  Santa  Paloma  had  ever  known,  was  as 
much  discussed  as  this  one.    Indeed,  it  began 


196  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

a  new  era;  but  that  was  later  on.  When  Mrs. 
Burgoyne's  plain  white  frock  appeared  among 
the  elaborate  gowns  worn  at  the  club  luncheon 
that  afternoon,  she  was  quite  overwhelmed  by 
congratulations.  She  went  away  very  early, 
to  superintend  the  children's  luncheon  at  the 
Hall,  and  then  Mrs.  White  had  a  chance  to  tell 
the  distinguished  guests  who  she  was,  and  that 
she  could  well  afford  to  play  Lady  Bountiful  to 
the  Santa  Paloma  children. 

"One  wouldn't  imagine  it,  she  seems  ab- 
solutely simple  and  unspoiled,"  said  Mrs. 
Governor. 

"She  w.^"  said  Mrs.  Lloyd  unexpectedly. 

"I  told  her  how  scared  most  of  us  had  been 
at  the  mere  idea  of  her  coming  here,  Parker," 
Mrs.  Lloyd  told  her  husband  later,  "and  how 
friendly  she  is,  and  that  she  always  wears  little 
wash  dresses,  and  that  the  other  girls  are  be- 
ginning to  wear  checked  aprons  and  things. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  197 

because  her  girls  do !  Of  course,  I  said  it  sort  of 
laughingly,  you  know,  but  I  don't  think  Clara 
White  liked  it  one  bit,  and  I  don't  care!  Clara 
is  rather  mad  at  me,  anyway,"  she  went  on, 
musingly,  "because  yesterday  she  telephoned 
that  she  was  going  to  send  that  Armenian 
peddler  over  here,  with  some  Madeira  lunch 
cloths.  They  were  beauties,  and  only  twenty- 
three  dollars;  you'd  pay  fifty  for  them  at 
Raphael  Weil's — they're  smuggled,  I  suppose! 
But  I  simply  said, '  Clara,  I  can't  afford  it! '  and 
let  it  go  at  that.  She  laughed — quite  cattily, 
Parker! — and  said,  'Oh,  that's  rather  funny!' 
But  I  doii't  care  whether  Clara  White  thinks 
I'm  copying  Mrs.  Burgo}Tie  or  not!  I  might  as 
well  copy  her  as  somebody  else!" 

Mrs.  Burgoyne  and  Barry  Valentine  went 
down-town  on  the  evening  of  the  great  day,  to 
see  the  fireworks  and  the  crowds,  and  to  hear 


198  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

the  announcements  of  prize-winners.  Santa 
Paloma  was  in  holiday  mood,  and  the  two 
entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  hour  Hke  irrespon- 
sible children.  It  was  a  warm,  wonderful 
summer  night;  the  sky  was  close  and  thickly 
spangled  with  stars.  Main  Street  bobbed  with 
Japanese  lanterns,  rang  with  happy  voices  and 
laughter.  The  jostling,  pushing  currents  of 
men  in  summer  suits,  and  joyous  girls  in  thin 
gowns,  were  all  good-natured.  Sidney  found 
friends  on  all  sides,  and  laughed  and  called  her 
greetings  as  gaily  as  anyone. 

Barry  had  a  rare  opportunity  to  watch  her 
unobserved,  as  she  went  her  happy  way;  the 
earnest  happy  brightness  in  her  eyes,  when  some 
shabby  little  woman  from  Old  Paloma  laid  a 
timid  hand  on  her  arm,  her  adoring  interest  in 
the  fat  babies  that  slumbered  heavily  on  pater- 
nal shoulders,  her  ready  use  of  names,  "Isn't 
this  fun,  Agnes?" — "You  haven't  lost  Harry, 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  199 

have  you,  Mrs.  O'Brien?"— "Don't  you  and 
your  friend  want  to  come  and  have  some  ice- 
cream with  us,  Josie?" 

"But  we  mustn't  waste  too  much  time  here, 
Barry,"  she  would  say  now  and  then;  for  at 
eight  o'clock  a  "grand  concert  program  and 
distribution  of  prizes"  was  scheduled  to  take 
place  at  the  town  hall,  and  Sidney  was  anxious 
not  to  miss  an  instant  of  it.  "Don't  worry,  I'll 
get  you  there!"  Barry  would  answer  reassur- 
ingly, amused  at  her  eagerness. 

And  true  to  his  word,  he  stopped  her  at  the 
wide  doorw^ay  of  the  concert  hall,  fully  five 
minutes  before  the  hour,  and  they  found  them- 
selves joining  the  slow  stream  of  men  and 
women  and  children  that  was  pouring  up  the 
wide,  dingy  stairway.  Everyone  was  trying, 
in  all  good  humor,  to  press  ahead  of  everyone 
else,  inspired  with  the  sudden  agonizing  con- 
viction that  in  the  next  two  minutes  every 


200  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

desirable  seat  would  certainly  be  gone.  Even 
Sidney,  familiar  as  she  was  with  every  grand 
opera  house  in  the  world,  felt  the  infection,  and 
asked  rather  nervously  if  any  of  the  seats  were 
reserved. 

"Don't  worry;  we'll  get  seats,"  said  the  im- 
perturbable Barry,  and  several  children  in 
their  neighborhood  laughed  out  in  sudden 
exquisite  relief. 

Seats  indeed  there  were,  although  the  front 
rows  were  filling  fast,  and  all  the  aisle-chairs 
were  taken  by  squirming,  restless  small  children. 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  sat  down,  and  studied  the  hall 
with  delighted  eyes.  It  was  ordinarily  only  a 
shabby,  enormous,  high-ceiled  room,  filled  with 
rows  of  chairs,  and  with  an  elevated  stage  at  the 
far  end.  But,  like  all  Santa  Paloma,  it  was  in 
holiday  trim  to-night.  All  the  windows — 
wide  open  to  the  summer  darkness — were 
framed  in  bunting  and  drooping  flowers,  and 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  201 

on  the  stage  were  potted  palms  and  crossed 
flags.  Great  masses  of  bamboo  and  California 
ferns  were  tied  with  red,  white  and  blue  stream- 
ers between  the  windows,  and,  beside  these 
decorations,  which  were  new  for  the  occasion, 
were  purple  and  yellow  banners,  left  from  the 
night  of  the  Native  Sons'  Grand  Ball  and  Re- 
ception, a  month  ago,  and,  arched  above  the 
stage  the  single  word  "Welcome"  in  letters  two 
feet  high,  which  dated  back  to  the  Ladies  of 
Saint  Rose's  Parish  Annual  Fair  and  Enter- 
tainment, in  May.  If  the  combined  effect  of 
these  was  not  wholly  artistic,  at  least  it  wac 
very  gay,  and  the  murmur  of  voices  and  laughter 
all  over  the  hall  was  gay,  too,  and  gay  almost 
to  intoxication  it  was  to  hear  the  musicians 
tentatively  and  subduedly  trying  their  instru- 
ments up  by  the  piano,  with  their  sleek  heads 
close  together. 

Presently  every  chair  in  the  house  had  its 


202  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

occupant,  and  the  younger  element  began  a 
spasmodic  sort  of  clapping,  as  a  delicate  hint  to 
the  agitated  managers,  who  were  behind  the 
scenes,  running  blindly  about  with  worn  scraps 
of  scribbled  paper  in  their  hands,  desperately 
attempting  to  call  the  roll  of  their  performers. 
When  Joe,  the  janitor,  came  out  onto  the  stage, 
he  was  royally  applauded,  although  he  did  no 
more  than  move  a  tin  stand  on  which  there  were 
numbered  cards,  from  one  side  of  the  stage  to 
the  other,  and  change  the  number  in  view  from 
"i8"to"i." 

Fathers  and  mothers,  perspiring,  clean  and 
good-natured,  smiled  upon  youthful  impatience 
and  impertinence  to-night,  as  they  sat  fanning 
and  discussing  the  newcomers,  or  leaned  for- 
ward or  backward  for  hilarious  scraps  of  con- 
versation with  their  neighbors.  Lovers,  as 
always  oblivious  of  time,  sat  entirely  indifferent 
to  the  rise  or  fall  of  the  curtain,  the  girls  with 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  203 

demurely  dropped  lashes,  the  men  deep  in  low 
monotones,  their  faces  close  to  the  lovely  faces 
so  near,  their  arms  flung,  in  all  absent-minded- 
ness, across  the  backs  of  the  ladies'  chairs. 
And  any  motherly  heart  might  have  been 
stirred  with  an  aching  sort  of  tenderness,  as 
Sidney  Burgoyne's  was,  at  the  sight  of  so  much 
awkward,  budding  manliness,  so  many  shining 
pompadours,  and  carefully  polished  shoes  and 
outrageous  cravats — so  many  silky,  filleted 
little  heads,  and  innocent  young  bosoms  half- 
hidden  by  all  sorts  of  dainty  little  conspiracies: 
of  lace  and  lawn.  Youth,  enchanting,  self- 
absorbed,  important,  had  coolly  taken  possession 
of  the  hall,  as  it  does  of  everything,  for  its  own 
happy  plans,  and  something  of  the  gossamer 
beauty  of  it  seemed  to  be  clouding  older  and 
wiser  eyes  to-night.  Sidney  found  her  eyes 
resting  upon  Barry's  big,  shapely  hand,  as  he 
leaned    forward,    deep    in    conversation    with 


204  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

Dr.  Brown,  in  the  chair  ahead,  and  she  was 
conscious  that  she  wanted  to  sit  back  and  shut 
her  eyes,  and  draw  a  deep  breath  of  sheer  ir- 
rational happiness  because  this  was  Barry 
next  to  her,  and  that  he  liked  to  be 
there. 

Presently  the  hall  thrilled  to  see  two  modest- 
looking  and  obviously  embarrassed  men  come 
out  to  seat  themselves  in  the  half-circle  of 
chairs  that  lined  the  stage,  and  a  moment  later 
applause  broke  out  for  the  Mayor  and  his  wife, 
and  the  members  of  the  Flower  Parade  Com- 
mittee of  Arrangements,  and  for  the  nondescript 
persons  who  invariably  fill  in  such  a  group,  and 
for  the  kindly,  smiling  Governor,  and  the  ladies 
of  his  party,  and  for  the  Willard  Whites,  who, 
with  the  easiest  manners  in  the  world,  were  in 
actual  conversation  with  the  great  people  as 
they  came  upon  the  stage. 

At  the  sight  of  them,  Mrs.  Carew,  still  vigor- 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  205 

ously  clapping,  leaned  over  to  say  to  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne: 

' '  Look  at  Clara  White !  And  we  were  wonder- 
ing why  they  didn't  come  in!  Wouldn't  she 
make  you  tired! " 

"You  might  kiss  her  hand,  when  you  go  up 
to  get  your  prize,  Mrs.  Burgoyne,"  suggested 
Barry,  and  a  general  giggle  went  the  rounds. 

"If  I  get  a  prize,"  said  Sidney,  in  alarm, 
"you've  got  to  go  up,  I  couldn't!" 

"We'll  see — "  Barry  began,  his  voice  drowned 
by  the  opening  crash  of  the  band. 

There  followed  what  the  three  papers  of 
Santa  Paloma  were  unanimous  the  next  day  in 
describing  as  the  most  brilliant  and  enjoyable 
concert  ever  given  in  Santa  Paloma.  It  was 
received  with  immense  enthusiasm,  entirely 
unaffected  by  the  fact  that  everyone  present 
had  heard  Miss  Emelie  Jeanne  Foster  sing 
"Twickenham  Ferry"  before,   with   "Dawn" 


2o6  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

as  an  encore,  and  was  familiar  also  with  the 
selections  of  the  Stringed  Instrument  Club,  and 
had  listened  to  young  Doctor  Perry's  impas- 
sioned tenor  many  times.  As  for  George 
O'Connor,  with  his  irresistible  laughing  song, 
and  the  song  about  the  train  that  went  to  Morro 
to-day,  he  was  more  popular  every  time  he 
appeared,  and  was  greeted  now  by  mad  ap- 
plause, and  shouts  of  "There's  George!"  and 
"Hello,  George!" 

And  the  Home  Boys'  Quartette  from  Em- 
ville  was  quite  new,  and  various  solo  singers  and 
a  "lady  elocutionist"  from  San  Francisco  were 
heard  for  the  first  time.  The  latter,  who  was 
on  the  program  merely  for  a  "Recitation — 
Selected,"  was  so  successful  with  "Pauline 
Pavlovna,"  and  "Seein'  Things  at  Night"  that 
it  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  before  the  Governor 
was  introduced. 

However,  he  was  at  last  duly  presented  to 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  207 

the  applauding  hundreds,  and  came  forward  to 
the  foothghts  to  address  them,  and  made  every- 
one laugh  and  feel  friendly  by  saying  immedi- 
ately that  he  knew  they  hadn't  come  out  that 
evening  to  hear  an  old  man  make  a  long  speech. 

He  said  he  didn't  believe  in  speechmaking 
much,  he  beUeved  in  doing  things;  there  were 
always  a  lot  of  people  to  stand  around  and  make 
speeches,  like  himself — and  there  was  more 
laughter. 

He  said  that  he  knew  the  business  of  the 
evening  was  the  giving  out  of  these  prizes  here — 
he  didn't  know  what  was  in  these  boxes — he 
indicated  the  daintily  wrapped  and  tied  pack- 
ages that  stood  on  the  little  table  in  the  middle 
of  the  stage — but  he  thought  every  lady  in  the 
hall  would  know  before  she  went  home,  and 
perhaps  some  one  of  them  would  tell  him — and 
there  was  more  laughter.  He  said  he  hoped 
that  there  was  something  mighty  nice  in  the 


2o8  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

largest  box,  because  he  understood  that  it  was 
to  go  to  a  fairy-godmother;  he  didn't  know 
whether  the  good  people  in  the  hall  believed  in 
fairies  or  not,  but  he  knew  that  some  of  the 
children  in  Old  Paloma  did,  and  he  had  seen 
and  heard  enough  that  day  to  make  him  believe 
in  'em  too !  He'd  heard  of  a  fairy  years  ago  who 
made  a  coach-and-four  out  of  a  pumpkin,  but 
he  didn't  think  that  was  any  harder  than  to 
make  a  coach-and-six  out  of  a  hay-wagon,  and 
put  twenty  Cinderellas  into  it  instead  of  one. 
He  said  it  gave  him  great  pride  and  pleasure  to 
announce  that  the  first  prize  for  to-day's  beau- 
tiful contest  had  been  unanimously  awarded 

to 

Sidney  Burgoyne,  watching  him  with  fasci- 
nated eyes,  her  breath  coming  fast  and  unevenly, 
her  color  brightening  and  fading,  heard  only 
so  much,  and  then,  with  a  desperate  impulse  to 
get  away,  half  rose  to  her  feet. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  209 

But  she  was  too  late.  Long  before  the  Gov- 
ernor reached  her  name,  a  sudden  outburst  of 
laughter  and  clapping  shook  the  hall,  there  was 
a  friendly  stir  and  murmur  about  her;  a  hun- 
dred voices  came  to  her  ears,  "It's  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne,  of  course! — She's  got  it!  She's  got  the 
first  prize! — Go  on  up,  Mrs.  Burgoyne! — 
You've  got  il; — Isn't  that  great^ — she's  got  it! 
Go  up  and  get  it!" 

"You've  got  first  prize,  I  guess.  You'll  have 
to  go  up  for  it,"  Barry  urged  her, 

"He  didn't  say  so!"  Sidney  protested  ner- 
vously. But  she  let  herself  be  half-pushed  into 
the  aisle,  and  somehow  reached  the  three  little 
steps  that  led  up  to  the  platform,  and  found 
herself  facing  His  Excellency,  in  an  uproar  of 
applause. 

The  Governor  said  a  few  smiling  words  as  he 
put  a  large  box  into  her  hands;  Sidney  knew  this 
because  she  saw  his  lips  move,  but  the  house 


2IO  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

had  gone  quite  mad  by  this  time,  and  not  a 
word  was  audible.  Everyone  in  the  hall  knew 
that  a  tall  loving-cup  was  in  the  box,  for  it  had 
been  on  exhibition  in  the  window  of  Postag's 
jewelry  store  for  three  weeks.  It  was  of  silver, 
and  lined  with  gold,  both  metals  shining  with 
an  unearthly  and  flawless  radiance;  and  there 
was  "Awarded — as  a  First  Prize — in  the 
Twelfth  Floral  Parade — of  Santa  Paloma,  Cal- 
ifornia" cut  beautifully  into  one  side,  and  a 
scroll  all  ready,  on  the  other  side,  to  be  engraved 
with  the  lucky  winner's  name. 

She  had  been  joking  for  two  or  three  weeks 
about  the  possibility  of  this  very  occurrence, 
had  been  half-expecting  it  all  day,  but  now 
suddenly  all  the  joke  seemed  gone  out  of  it,  and 
she  was  only  curiously  stirred  and  shaken.  She 
looked  confusedly  down  at  the  sea  of  faces  below 
her,  smiles  were  everywhere,  the  eyes  that  were 
upon  her  were  full  of  all  affection  and  pride — 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  211 

She  had  done  so  little  after  all,  she  said  to  her- 
self, with  sudden  humility,  almost  with  shame. 
And  it  was  so  poignantly  sweet  to  realize  that 
they  loved  her,  that  she  was  one  of  themselves, 
they  were  glad  she  had  won,  she  who  had  been 
a  stranger  to  all  of  them  only  a  few  months 
ago! 

Her  eyes  full  of  sudden  tears,  her  lip  shaking, 
she  could  only  bow  and  bow  again,  and  then, 
just  as  her  smile  threatened  to  become  entirely 
eclipsed,  she  managed  a  husky  "Thank  you  all 
so  much!"  and  descended  the  steps  rapidly,  to 
slip  into  her  chair  between  Barry  and  George 
Carew. 

"You  know,  you  oughtn't  to  make  a  long 
tedious  speech  like  that  on  an  occasion  like  this, 
Sid,"  Barry  said,  when  she  had  somewhat  re- 
covered her  equilibrium,  and  the  silver  loving 
cup  was  unwrapped,  and  was  being  passed 
admiringly  from  hand  to  hand. 


212  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGO\T^E 

''Don't!"  she  said  warningly,  "or  you'll  have 
me  weeping  on  your  shoulder!" 

Instead  of  which  she  was  her  gayest  self,  and 
accepted  endless  congratulations  with  joyous 
composure,  as  the  audience  streamed  out  into 
the  reviving  festivity  of  Main  Street.  The  tide 
was  turning  in  one  direction  now,  for  there  were 
to  be  "fireworks  and  a  stupendous  band  con- 
cert" immediately  following  the  concert,  in  a 
vacant  lot  not  far  away. 

And  presently  they  all  found  themselves 
seated  on  the  fragrant  grass,  under  the  stars. 
George  Carew,  at  Sidney's  feet,  solemnly 
wrapped  sections  of  miolasses  popcorn  in  oiled 
paper,  and  passed  them  to  the  ladies.  Barry's 
coat  made  a  comfortable  seat  for  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
and  little  Mrs.  Brown;  Barry  himself  was  just 
behind,  and  Mrs.  Carew  and  her  big  son  beside 
them.  All  about,  in  the  darkness,  were  other 
groups:  mothers  and  fathers  and  alert,  chatter- 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  213 

ing  children.  Alice  Carter,  the  big  mill-girl, 
radiant  now,  and  with  a  hoarse,  inarticulate, 
adoring  young  plumber  in  tow,  went  by  them, 
and  stooped  to  whisper  something  to  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne.  "I  wish  you  would  come,  Alice!"  the 
lady  answered  eagerly,  as  they  went  on. 

Then  the  rockets  began  to  hiss  up  toward  the 
stars,  each  falling  shower  of  light  greeted  with 
a  long  rapturous  "Ah-h-h!"  Catherine-wheels 
sputtered  nearer  the  ground;  red  lights  made 
eerie  great  spots  of  illumination  here  and  there, 
against  which  dark  little  figures  moved. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ever  had  a  happier  day 
in  my  life!"  said  Sidney  Burgoyne. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

More  happy  days  followed;  for  Santa  Paloma, 
after  the  Fourth  of  July,  felt  only  friendliness  for 
the  new  owner  of  the  Hall,  and  Mrs.  Burgoyne's 
informal  teas  on  the  river  bank  began  to  prove 
a  powerful  attraction,  even  rivaling  the  club  in 
feminine  favor.  Sometimes  the  hostess  enlisted 
all  their  sympathies  for  a  newly  arrived  Old 
Paloma  baby,  and  they  tore  lengths  of  flannel, 
and  busily  stitched  at  tiny  garments,  under  the 
shade  of  the  willow  and  pepper  trees.  Some- 
times she  had  in  her  care  one  or  more  older 
babies  whose  busy  mother  was  taking  a  day's 
rest,  or  whose  father  was  perhaps  ill,  needing  all 
the  wife's  care.  Always  there  was  something 
to  read  and  discuss;  an  editorial  in  some  east- 

ern  magazine  that  made  them  all  indignant  or 

214 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  215 

enthusiastic,  or  a  short  story  worth  reading 
aloud.  And  almost  always  the  children  were 
within  call,  digging  great  holes  in  the  pebbly 
shallows  of  the  river,  only  to  fill  them  up  again, 
toiling  over  bridges  and  dams,  climbing  out  to 
the  perilous  length  of  the  branches  that  hung 
above  the  water.  Little  Mary  Scott,  released 
from  the  fear  of  an  "op'ration,"  and  facing  all 
unconsciously  a  far  longer  journey  than  the 
dreaded  one  to  a  San  Francisco  hospital,  had 
her  own  cushioned  chair  near  the  bank,  where 
she  could  hear  and  see,  and  laugh  at  everything 
that  went  on,  and  revel  in  consolation  and  band- 
ages when  the  inevitable  accidents  made  them 
necessary.  Mary  had  no  cares  now,  no  re- 
sponsibility more  serious  than  to  be  sure  her 
feet  didn't  get  cold,  and  to  tell  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
the  minute  her  head  ached;  there  was  to  be 
nothing  but  rest  and  comfort  and  laughter  for 
her  in  life  now.    ''I  don't  know  why  we  should 


2i6  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

pity  her,"  little  Mrs.  Brown  said  thoughtfully, 
one  day,  as  they  watched  her  with  the  other 
children;  "we  can't  ever  hope  to  feel  that  any 
of  our  children  are  as  safe  as  she  is." 

Mrs.  Burgoyne's  method  of  entertaining  the 
children  was  simple.  She  always  made  them 
work  as  hard  as  possible.  One  day  they  begged 
her  to  let  them  build  a  "truly  dam"  that  would 
really  stop  the  Lobos  in  its  placid  course.  She 
consulted  gravely  with  George  Carew:  should 
they  attempt  it?  George,  after  serious  consid- 
eration, thought  they  should. 

As  a  result,  twenty  children  panted  and 
toiled  through  a  warm  Saturday  afternoon, 
George  and  the  Adams  boys  shouting  directions 
as  they  handled  planks  and  stones;  everybody 
wet,  happy,  and  excited.  Not  the  least  glorious 
moment  was  when  the  dam  was  broken  at  five 
o'clock,  just  before  refreshments  were  served. 

"We'll  do  that  better  next  Saturday,"  said 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  217 

George.  But  a  week  later  they  wanted  to  clean 
the  barn  and  organize  a  club.  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
was  sure  they  couldn't.  All  that  space,  she 
said,  and  those  bins,  and  the  little  rooms,  and 
all?  Very  well,  then,  they  could  try.  Later 
they  longed  for  a  picnic  supper  in  the  woods, 
with  an  open  fire,  and  potatoes,  and  singing. 
Their  hostess  was  dubious:  entreated  them  to 
consider  the  work  involved,  dragging  stones  for 
the  fire,  and  carrying  potatoes  and  bacon  and 
jam  and  all  the  rest  of  it  'way  up  therel  This 
was  at  two  o'clock,  and  at  six  she  was  formally 
asked  to  come  up  and  inspect  the  cleared  camp- 
ing ground,  and  the  fireplace  with  its  broilers, 
and  the  mammoth  stack  of  fuel  prepared. 

*'I  knew  you'd  do  it!"  said  the  lady  delight- 
edly. "Now  we'll  really  have  a  fine  supper!" 
And  a  memorable  supper  they  had,  and  Indian 
stories,  and  singing,  and  they  went  home  well 
after  dusk,  to  end  the  day  perfectly. 


2i8  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

"They  like  this  sort  of  thing  much  better 
than  white  dresses,  and  a  professional  enter- 
tainer, and  dancing,  and  too  much  ice-cream," 
said  Mrs.  Burgoyne  to  Mrs.  Adams. 

"Of  course  they  do,"  said  Mrs.  Adams,  who 
had  her  own  reasons  for  turning  rather  red 
and  speaking  somewhat  faintly.  "And  it's 
much  less  work,  and  much  less  expense,"  she 
added. 

"Now  it  is,  when  they  can  be  out-of-doors," 
said  Mrs.  Burgoyne;  "but  in  winter  they  do 
make  awful  work  indoors.  However,  there  is 
tramping  for  dry  weather,  and  I  mean  to  have  a 
stove  set  up  in  the  old  billiard-room  down- 
stairs and  turn  them  all  loose  in  there  when  it's 
wet.  Theatricals,  and  pasting  things,  and 
singing,  and  now  and  then  candy-making,  is 
all  fun.  And  one  knows  that  they're  safe, 
and  piling  up  happy  memories  of  their 
home." 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  219 

"You  make  a  sort  of  profession  of  mother- 
hood," said  Mrs.  White  dryly. 

"It  is  my  profession,"  said  the  hostess,  with 
her  happy  laugh. 

But  her  happiness  had  a  sudden  check  in  mid- 
August;  Sidney  found  herself  no  more  immune 
from  heartache  than  any  other  woman,  no  more 
philosophical  over  a  hurt.  It  was,  she  told 
herself,  only  a  trifle,  after  all.  She  was  absurd 
to  let  it  cloud  the  bright  day  for  her  and  keep 
her  restless  and  wakeful  at  night.  It  was 
nothing.    Only 

Only  it  was  the  first  time  that  Barry  had 
failed  her.  He  was  gone.  Gone  without  a  word 
of  explanation  to  anyone,  leaving  his  work  at 
the  Mail  unfinished,  leaving  even  Billy,  his 
usual  confidant,  quite  in  the  dark.  Sidney  had 
noticed  for  days  a  certain  moodiness  and  un- 
responsiveness about  him;  had  tried  rather 
timidly  to  win  him  from  it ;  had  got  up  uneasily 


220  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

half  a  dozen  times  in  the  night  just  past  to  look 
across  the  garden  to  his  house,  and  wonder  why 
Barry's  light  burned  on  and  on. 

She  had  meant  to  send  for  him  in  the  morn- 
ing, but  Billy,  artlessly  appearing  when  the 
waffles  came  on  at  breakfast,  remarked  that 
Dad  was  gone  to  San  Francisco. 

"To  the  city,  BUly? "  Sidney  asked.  " Didn't 
he  say  why?" 

"He  didn't  even  say  goodbye,"  Billy  replied 
cheerfully.  "He  just  left  a  note  for  Hayashi. 
It  said  he  didn't  know  how  long  he  would  be 
gone." 

Sidney  tried  with  small  success  to  deceive 
herself  into  thinldng  that  it  was  the  mere 
mysteriousness  of  this  that  cut  her.  She  pres- 
ently went  down  to  see  Mrs.  Carcw,  and  was 
fretted  because  that  lady  would  for  some  time 
discuss  nothing  but  the  successful  treatment  of 
insects  on  the  rose-bushes. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  221 

"Barry  seems  to  have  disappeared,"  said 
Sidney  finally,  in  a  casual  tone. 

Mrs.  Carew  straightened  up,  forgot  hellebore 
and  tobacco  juice  for  the  moment. 

"Did  I  tell  you  what  Silva  told  me?  "  she  asked. 

"Silva?"  echoed  Sidney,  at  a  loss. 

"The  milkman.  He  told  me  that  when  he 
came  up  at  five  o'clock  this  morning,  Barry 
came  out  of  the  gate,  and  that  he  looked  awfully. 
He  said  he  was  pale,  and  that  his  eyes  looked 
badly,  and  that  he  hardly  seemed  to  know  Vvhat 
he  was  doing.  And  oh,  my  dear,  I'm  afraid  that 
he's  drinking  again!  I'm  sure  of  it.  It's  two 
years  now  since  he  has  done  this.  I  think  it's  too 
bad.  But  you  know  he  used  to  go  down  to 
town  every  little  while  for  a  regular  time  with 
those  newspaper  men.  He  doesn't  like  Santa 
Paloma,  you  know.  He  gets  very  bored  here. 
He'll  be  back  in  a  day  or  two,  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  himself."  * 


222  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

Sidney  did  not  answer,  because  she  could  not. 
Resentment  and  loyalty,  shame  and  heartache, 
kept  her  lips  dumb.  She  walked  to  and  fro  in 
the  garden,  alone  in  the  sweet  early  darkness, 
for  an  hour.  Then  she  went  indoors,  and  tried 
to  amuse  herself  at  the  piano.  Suddenly  her 
face  twisted,  she  laid  her  arm  along  the  rack, 
and  her  face  on  her  arm;  but  it  was  only  for  a 
moment;  then  she  straightened  up  resolutely, 
piled  the  music,  closed  the  piano,  and  went  up- 
stairs. 

"But  perhaps  I'm  not  old  enough  yet  for  an 
olive  garden,"  she  told  the  stars  from  her  win- 
dow an  hour  later. 


CHAPTER  XV 

Another  day  went  by,  and  still  there  was  no 
news  from  Barry.  The  early  autumn  weather 
was  exquisite,  and  Sidney,  with  the  additional 
work  for  the  Mail  that  the  editor's  absence  left 
for  her,  found  herself  very  busy.  But  life 
seemed  suddenly  to  taste  flat  and  uninteresting 
to  her.  The  sunlight  was  glaring,  the  after- 
noons dusty  and  windy,  and  under  all  the  day's 
duties  and  pleasures — the  meeting  of  neighbors, 
the  children's  confidences,  her  busy  coming  and 
going  up  and  down  the  village  streets — ran  a 
sick  undercurrent  of  disappointment  and  heart- 
ache. She  went  to  the  post-office  twice,  in  that 
first  long  day,  for  the  arriving  mail,  and  JNIiss 
Potter,  pleased  at  these  glimpses  of  the  lady 

from  the  Hall,  chatted  blithely  as  she  pushed 

223 


2  24  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

Italian  letters,  London  letters,  letters  from 
Washington  and  New  York,  through  the  little 
wicket. 

Eut  there  was  not  a  line  from  Barry.  On  the 
second  day  Sidney  began  to  think  of  sending 
him  a  note;  it  might  be  chanced  to  the  Bohemian 
Club 

But  no,  she  wouldn't  do  that.  If  he  did  not 
care  enough  to  write  her,  she  certainly  wouldn't 
write  him. 

She  beeran  to  realize  how  different  Santa 
Paloma  was  without  his  big  figure,  his  laughter, 
his  joyous  comment  upon  people  and  things. 
She  had  taken  his  comradeship  for  granted, 
taken  it  as  just  one  more  element  of  the  old 
childish  days  regained,  never  thought  of  its 
rude  interruption  or  ending. 

Now  she  felt  ashamed  and  sore,  she  had  been 
playing  with  fire,  she  told  herself  severely;  she 
had  perhaps  hurt  him;  she  had  certainly  given 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  225 

herself  needless  heartache.  No  romantic  girl 
of  seventeen  ever  suffered  a  more  unreasoning 
pang  than  did  Sidney  when  she  came  upon 
Barry's  shabby,  tobacco-scented  office  coat, 
hanging  behind  his  desk,  or  found  in  her  own 
desk  one  of  the  careless  notes  he  so  frequently 
used  to  leave  there  at  night  for  her  to  find  in 
the  morning. 

However,  in  the  curious  way  that  things 
utterly  unrelated  sometimes  play  upon  each 
other  in  this  life,  these  days  of  bewilderment  and 
chagrin  bore  certain  good  fruit.  Sidney  had  for 
some  weeks  been  planning  an  attack  upon  the 
sympathies  of  the  Santa  Paloma  Women's  Club, 
but  had  shrunk  from  beginning  it,  because  Hfe 
was  running  very  smoothly  and  happily,  and 
she  was  growing  too  genuinely  fond  of  her  new 
neighbors  to  risk  jeopardizing  their  affection  for 
her  by  a  move  she  suspected  would  be  unpop- 
ular. 


226  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

But  now  she  was  unhappy,  and,  with  the 
curious  stoicism  that  is  born  of  unhappiness, 
she  plunged  straight  into  the  matter.  On  the 
third  day  after  Barry's  disappearance  she  ap- 
peared  at  the  regular  meeting  of  the  club  as 
Mrs.  Carew's  guest. 

"I  hope  this  means  that  you  are  coming  to 
your  senses,  ye  bad  girl ! "  said  Mrs.  Apostleman, 
drawing  her  to  the  next  chair  with  a  fat  im- 
perative hand. 

"Perhaps  it  does,"  Sidney  answered,  with  a 
rather  nervous  smile.  She  sat  attentive  and 
appreciative,  through  the  reading  of  a  paper 
entitled  "Some  Glimpses  of  the  Real  Burns," 
and  seemed  immensely  to  enjoy  the  four  songs 
— Burns's  poems  set  to  music — and  the  clever 
recitation  of  several  selections  from  Burns  that 
followed. 

Then  the  chairman  announced  that  Mrs.  Bur- 
goyne,  "whom  I'm  sure  we  all  know,  although 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  227 

she  isn't  one  of  us  yet  (laughter),  has  asked  per- 
mission to  address  the  club  at  the  conclusion  of 
the  regular  program."  There  was  a  little  ap- 
plause, and  Sidney,  very  rosy,  walked  rapidly 
forward,  to  stand  just  below  the  platform. 
She  was  nervous,  obviously,  and  spoke  hur- 
riedly and  in  a  rather  unnatural  voice. 

"Your  chairman  and  president,"  she  began, 
with  a  little  inclination  toward  each,  "have 
given  me  permission  to  speak  to  you  to-day  for 
five  minutes,  because  I  want  to  ask  the  Santa 
Paloma  Women's  Club  a  favor — a  great  favor, 
in  fact.  I  won't  say  how  much  I  hope  the  club 
will  decide  to  grant  it,  but  just  tell  you  what  it 
is.  It  has  to  do  with  the  factory  girls  across  the 
river.  I've  becom.e  interested  in  some  of  them; 
partly  I  suppose  because  some  friends  of  mine 
are  working  for  just  such  girls,  only  under  in- 
finitely harder  circumstances,  in  some  of  the 
eastern  cities.     I  feel,  we  all  feel,  I  know,  that 


2  28  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

the  atmosphere  of  Old  Paloma  is  a  dangerous 
one  for  girls.  Every  year  certain  ones  among 
them  'go  wrong,'  as  the  expression  is;  and 
when  a  girl  once  does  that,  she  is  apt  to  go  very 
wrong  indeed  before  she  stops.  She  doesn't 
care  what  she  does,  in  fact,  and  her  own  people 
only  make  it  harder,  practically  drive  her  away. 
Or  even  if  she  marries  decently,  and'  tries  to 
live  down  all  the  past  it  comes  up  between  her 
and  her  neighbors,  between  her  and  her  chil- 
dren, perhaps,  and  embitters  her  whole  life. 
And  so  finally  she  goes  to  join  that  terrible  army 
of  women  that  we  others  try  to  pretend  we 
never  see  or  hear  of  at  all.  These  girls  work 
hard  all  day,  and  their  homes  aren't  the  right 
sort  of  homes,  with  hot  dirty  rooms, — full  of 
quarreling  and  crowding;  and  so  they  slip  out 
at  night  and  meet  their  friends  in  the  dance- 
halls,  and  the  moving-picture  shovs^s.  And  we — 
we  can't  blame  them."    Her  voice  had  grown 


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THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  229 

less  diffident,  and  rang  with  sudden  longing  and 
appeal.  "They  w^t  only  what  we  all  wanted 
a  few  years  ago,"  she  said.  "They  want  good 
times,  lights  and  music,  and  pretty  gowns, 
something  to  look  forward  to  in  the  long,  hot 
afternoons — dances,  theatricals,  harmless  meet- 
ings of  all  sorts.  If  we  could  give  them  safe 
clean  fun — not  patronizingly,  and  not  too  ob- 
viously instructive — they'd  be  willing  to  wait 
for  it;  they'd  talk  about  it  instead  of  more 
dangerous  things;  they'd  give  up  dangerous 
things  for  it.  They  are  very  nice  girls,  some  of 
them,  and  their  friends  are  very  nice  fellows,  for 
the  most  part,  and  they  are — they  are  so  very 
young. 

"However,  about  the  club — I  am  wondering 
if  it  could  be  borrowed  for  a  temporary  meeting- 
place  for  them,  if  we  form  a  sort  of  club  among 
them.  I  say  temporary,  because  I  hope  we  will 
build  them  a  clubhouse  of  their  own  some  day. 


230  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

But  meantime  there  is  only  the  Grand  Opera 
House,  which  all  the  traveling  theatrical  com- 
panies rent;  Hansen's  Hall,  which  is  over  a 
saloon,  so  that  won't  do;  and  the  Concert  Hall, 
which  costs  twenty-five  dollars  a  night.  We 
would,  of  course,  see  that  the  club  was  cleaned 
after  every  meeting,  and  pay  for  the  lights.  I — 
I  think  that's  about  all,"  finished  Sidney,  feel- 
ing that  she  had  put  her  case  rather  inelo- 
quently,  and  coming  to  a  full  stop.  She  sat 
down,  her  eyes  nowhere,  her  cheeks  very 
red. 

There  was  the  silence  of  utter  surprise  in  the 
room.  After  a  pause,  Mrs.  White  raised  a 
gloved  hand.  Permission  from  the  chair  was 
given  Mrs.  White  to  speak. 

"Your  idea  would  be  to  give  the  Old  Paloma 
girls  a  dance  here,  Mrs.  Burgoyne?" 

"Regular  dances,  yes,"  said  Sidney,  standing 
up.    "To  let  them  use  the  clubhouse,  say,  two 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  231 

nights  a  week.  Reading,  and  singing,  and  sew- 
ing one  night,  perhaps,  and  a  dance  another. 
Or  we  could  get  good  moving-picture  films,  or 
have  a  concert  or  play,  and  ask  the  mothers  and 
fathers  now  and  then;  charades  and  Morris 
dances,  something  like  that." 

"Dancing  and  moving-pictures — oh,  dear, 
dear!"  said  Mrs.  White,  with  a  whimsical  smile 
and  a  shake  of  her  head,  and  there  was  laughter. 

"All  those  things  take  costuming,  and  that 
takes  money,"  said  the  chairman,  after  a  silence, 
rather  hesitatingly. 

"Money  isn't  the  problem,"  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
rejoined  eagerly;  "you'll  find  that  they  spend  a 
good  deal  now,  even  for  the  wretched  pleasures 
they  have." 

There  was  another  silence.  Then  Mrs.  White 
again  gained  permission  to  speak,  and  rose  to  do 
so. 

"I  think  perhaps  Mrs.  Burgoyne,  being  a 


232  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

newcomer  here,  doesn't  quite  understand  our 
feeling  toward  our  little  club,"  she  said  very 
pleasantly.  "We  built  it,"  she  went  on,  with  a 
slight  touch  of  emotion,  "as  a  little  refuge  from 
everything  jarring  and  unpleasant;  we  meant  it 
to  stand  for  something  a  little  better  and  finer 
than  the  things  of  everyday  hfe  can  possibly 
be.  Perhaps  we  felt  that  there  are  already  too 
many  dances  and  too  many  moving-picture 
shows  in  the  world;  perhaps  we  felt  that  if  we 
could  forget  those  things  for  a  little  while — I 
don't  mean,"  said  Mrs.  White  smilingly  reason- 
able, "that  the  reform  of  wayward  girls  isn't  a 
splendid  and  ennobling  thing;  I  believe  heartily 
in  the  work  institutions  and  schools  are  doing 
along  those  lines,  but — "  and  with  a  pretty  little 
gesture  of  helplessness  she  flung  out  her  hands — 
"but  we  can't  have  a  Hull  House  in  every  little 
town,  you  know,  and  I'm  afraid  we  shouldn't 
find   very   many  Jane  Addamses  if  we   did! 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  233 

Good  girls  don't  need  this  sort  of  thing,  and 
bad  girls — well,  unfortunately,  the  world  has 
always  had  bad  girls  and  always  will  have !  We 
would  merely  turn  our  lovely  clubhouse  over  to 
a  lot  of  little  romping  hoydens." 

"But — "  began  Mrs.  Burgoyne  eagerly. 

''Just  one  moment,"  said  the  President, 
sweetly,  and  Mrs.  Burgoyne  sat  down  with 
blazing  cheeks.  "I  only  want  to  say  that  I 
think  this  is  outside  the  purpose  for  which  the 
club  was  formed,"  added  Mrs.  White.  "If 
the  club  would  care  to  vote  on  this,  it  seems  to 
me  that  would  be  the  wisest  way  of  settling  the 
matter;  but  perhaps  we  could  hear  from  a  few 
more  members  first?" 

There  was  a  little  rustle  of  applause  at  this, 
and  Sidney  felt  her  heart  give  a  sick  plunge, 
and  raged  within  herself  because  her  own  act 
had  placed  her  at  so  great  a  disadvantage.  In 
another  moment,   however,  general  attention 


234  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

was  directed  to  a  tall,  plainly  dressed,  gentle 
woman,  who  rose  and  said  rather  shyly: 

"Since  you  suggested  our  discussing  this  a 
little,  Mrs.  President,  I  would  like  to  say  that 
I  like  this  idea  very  much  myself.  I've  often 
felt  that  we  weren't  doing  very  much  good, 
just  uplifting  ourselves,  as  it  were,  and  I  hope 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  will  let  me  help  her  in  any  way 
I  can,  whether  the  club  votes  for  or  against 
this  plan.  I — I  have  four  girls  and  boys  of  my 
own  at  home,  as  you  know,  and  I  find  that  even 
with  plenty  of  music,  and  all  the  library  books 
and  company  they  want,  it's  hard  enough  to 
keep  those  children  happy  at  night.  And, 
ladies,  there  must  be  plenty  of  mothers  over 
there  in  Old  Paloma  who  worry  about  it  as  we 
do,  and  yet  have  no  way  of  helping  themselves. 
It  seems  to  me  we  couldn't  put  our  clubhouse 
to  better  use,  or  our  time  either,  for  that  matter. 
I  would  vote  decidedly  'yes'  to  such  a  plan. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  235 

I've  often  felt  that  we — well,  that  we  rather 
wasted  some  of  our  time  here,"  she  ended 
mildly. 

"Thank  you,  Mrs.  Moore,"  said  Mrs.  White 
politely. 

"I  hope  it  is  part  of  your  idea  to  let  our  own 
children  have  a  part  in  the  entertainments  you 
propose,"  briskly  added  another  woman,  a 
clergyman's  wife,  rising  immediately.  "I  think 
Doctor  Babcock  would  thoroughly  approve  of 
the  plan,  and  I  am  sure  I  do.  Every  httle 
while,"  she  went  on  smilingly,  "my  husband 
asks  me  what  good  the  club  is  doing,  and  I 
never  can  answer " 

"Men's  clubs  do  so  much  good!"  said  some 
loud,  cheerful  voice  at  the  back  of  the  hall,  and 
there  was  laughter. 

"A  great  many  of  them  do  good  and  have 
side  issues,  like  this  one,  that  are  all  for  good," 
the  clergyman's  wife  responded  quickly,  "and 


236  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

personally  I  would  thank  God  to  be  able  to 
save  even  ten — to  save  even  one — of  those 
Old  Paloma  girls  from  a  life  of  shame  and 
suffering.  I  wish  we  had  begun  before.  Mrs. 
Burgoyne  may  propose  to  build  them  their 
own  clubhouse  entirely  herself;  but  if  not,  I 
hope  we  can  all  help  in  that  too,  when  the  time 


comes." 


■'  "Thank  you,  Mrs.  Babcock,"  said  the  Presi- 
dent coldly.    "  What  do  you  think.  Miss  Pratt?  " 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Carew,  and  Mrs.  Brown,  and  I  all 
feel  as  Mrs.  Burgoyne  does,"  admitted  Anne 
Pratt  innocently,  a  little  fluttered. 

It  was  Mrs.  White's  turn  to  color. 

"1  didn't  know  that  the  matter  had  been 
discussed,"  she  said  stiffly. 

"  Only  generally;  not  in  reference  to  the  club," 
Mrs.  Burgoyne  supplied  quickly. 

"I  myself  will  propose  an  affirmative  vote," 
said  Mrs.  Apostleman's  rich  old  voice.     Mrs. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  237 

Apostleman  was  entirely  indifferent  to  par- 
liamentary law,  and  was  never  in  order.  "How 
d'ye  do  it?    The  ayes  rise,  is  that  it?" 

She  pulled  herself  magnificently  erect  by  the 
chair-back  in  front  of  her,  and  with  clapping 
and  laughter  the  entire  club  rose  to  its 
feet. 

"This  is  entirely  out  of  order,"  said  Mrs. 
White,  very  rosy.  Everyone  sat  down  sud- 
denly, and  the  chairman  gave  two  emphatic 
raps  of  her  gavel. 

The  President  then  asked  permission  to 
speak,  and  moved,  with  great  dignity,  that  the 
matter  be  laid  before  the  board  of  directors  at 
the  next  meeting,  and,  if  approved,  submitted 
in  due  order  to  the  vote  of  the  club. 

The  motion  was  briskly  seconded,  and  a  few 
minutes  later  Sidney  found  herself  freed  from 
the  babel  of  voices  and  walking  home  with 
nervous  rapidity.     "Well,   that's  over!"   she 


238  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

said  once  or  twice  aloud.    "Thank  Heaven,  it's 


over!" 


"Is  your  head  better,  Mother?"  said  Jo- 
anna, who  had  been  hanging  on  the  Hall  gate 
waiting  for  her  mother,  and  who  put  an  affec- 
tionate arm  about  her  as  they  walked  up  the 
path.    "You /oo^  better." 

"Jo,"  said  Mrs.  Burgoyne  seriously,  "there's 
one  sure  cure  for  the  blues  in  this  world.  I 
recommend  it  to  you,  for  it's  safer  than  cocaine, 
and  just  as  sure.  Go  and  do  something  you 
don't  want  to — for  somebody  else." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

,  It  was  no  pleasant  prospect  of  a  reunion  at 
the  club,  or  an  evening  with  his  old  friends,  that 
had  taken  Barry  Valentine  so  suddenly  to 
San  Francisco,  but  a  letter  from  his  wife — or, 
rather,  from  his  wife's  mother,  for  Hetty  her- 
self never  wrote — which  had  stirred  a  vague 
distrust  and  discomfort  in  his  mind.  Mrs. 
Scott,  his  mother-in-law,  was  a  worldly,  shrewd 
httle  person,  but  good-hearted,  and  as  easily 
moved  or  stirred  as  a  child.  This  was  one  of 
her  characteristic  letters,  disconnected,  ill- 
spelled,  and  scrawled  upon  scented  lavender 
paper.  She  wrote  that  she  and  Hetty  were  sick 
of  San  Francisco,  and  they  wanted  Barry's 
permission  to  sell  the  Mission  Street  flats  that 

afforded  them  a  hving,  and  go  away  once  and 

239 


240  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

for  all.  Het,  her  mother  wrote,  had  had  a  fine 
offer  for  the  houses;  Barry's  signature  only  was 
needed  to  close  the  deal. 

All  this  might  be  true;  it  sounded  reasonable 
enough;  but,  somehow,  Barry  fancied  that  it 
w^as  not  true,  or  at  least  that  it  was  only  partly 
so.  What  did  Hetty  want  the  money  for,  he 
wondered.  Why  should  her  mother  reiterate 
so  many  times  that  if  Barry  for  any  possible 
reason  disapproved,  he  was  not  to  give  the 
matter  another  thought;  they  most  especially 
wanted  only  his  simple  yes  or  no.  Why  this 
consideration?  Hetty  had  always  been  per- 
sistent enough  about  the  things  she  wanted 
before.  "I  know  you  would  consent  if  you 
could  see  how  our  hearts  are  set  on  this,"  wrote 
Mrs.  Scott,  ^'but  if  you  say  'no,'  that  ends  it." 

''Sure,  I'll  sell,"  Barry  said,  putting  the  letter 
in  his  pocket.  But  it  came  persistently  between 
him  and  his  work.    What  mischief  was  Hetty 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  241 

in,  he  wondered.  Had  some  get-rich-quick 
shark  got  hold  of  her;  it  v/as  extremely  likely. 
He  could  not  shake  the  thought  of  her  from  his 
mind,  her  voice,  her  pretty,  sullen  little  face, 
rose  again  and  haunted  him.  What  a  child  she 
had  been,  and  what  a  boy  he  was,  and  how 
mistaken  the  whole  bitter  experience! 

Walking  home  late  at  night,  the  memory  of 
old  days  rode  him  like  a  hateful  nightmare. 
He  saw  the  little  untidy  flat  they  had  had  in 
New  York;  the  white  winter  outside,  and  a 
deeper  chill  within;  little  Billy  coughing  and 
restless;  Hetty  practising  her  scales,  and  he, 
Barry,  trying  to  write  at  one  end  of  the  dining- 
room  table.  He  remembered  how  disappoint- 
ment and  restless  ambition  had  blotted  out  her 
fresh,  babyish  beauty;  how  thin  and  sharp  her 
voice  had  grown  as  the  months  went  on. 

Barry  tried  to  read,  but  the  book  became 
mere   printed    words.      He   went    softly    into 


242  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

Billy's  room,  and  sat  down  by  the  tumbled  bed 
and  the  small  warm  sleeper.  Billy,  even  asleep, 
snuggled  his  hand  appreciatively  into  his 
father's,  and  brought  its  little  fellow  to  lie 
there  too,  and  pushed  his  head  up  against 
Barry's  arm. 

And  there  the  father  sat  motionless,  while  the 
clock  outside  in  the  hall  struck  two,  and  three, 
and  four.  This  was  Hetty's  baby,  and  where 
was  Hetty?  Alone  with  her  Httle  fretful  mother, 
moving  from  boarding-house  to  boarding-house. 
Pretty  no  longer,  buoyed  up  by  the  hope  of  an 
operatic  career  no  longer,  pinched — as  they 
must  be  pinched — in  money  matters. 

The  thought  came  to  him  suddenly  that  he 
must  see  her;  and  though  he  fought  it  as  un- 
welcome and  distasteful,  it  grew  rapidly  into  a 
conviction.  He  must  see  her  again,  must  have 
a  long  talk  with  her,  must  ascertain  that  nothing 
he  could  do  for  the  woman  who  had  been  his 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  243 

wife  was  left  undone.  He  was  no  longer  the 
exacting,  unsuccessful  boy  she  had  left  so  un- 
ceremoniously; he  was  a  man  now,  standing  on 
his  own  feet,  and  with  a  recognized  position  in 
the  community.  The  little  fretful  baby  was  a 
well-brushed  young  person  who  attended  kin- 
dergarten and  Sunday  School.  A  new  era  of 
respectability  and  prosperity  had  set  in.  Hetty, 
his  newly  awakened  sense  of  justice  and  his 
newly  aroused  ambition  told  him,  must  some- 
how share  it.  Not  that  there  could  ever  be 
a  complete  reconciliation  between  them,  but 
there  could  be  good-will,  there  could  be  a  re- 
adjustment and  a  friendlier  understanding. 

The  thought  of  Sidney  came  suddenly  upon 
his  idle  musings  with  a  shock  that  made  his 
heart  sick.  Gracious,  beautiful,  and  fresh, 
although  she  was  older  than  Hetty,  how  far  she 
was  removed  from  this  sordid  story  of  his,  this 
darker  side  of  his  life!    Perhaps  months  from 


244  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

now,  his  troubled  thoughts  ran  on,  he  would 
tell  her  of  his  visit  to  Hetty.  For  he  had  de- 
termined to  visit  her. 

Just  at  dawn  he  left  the  house  and  went  out 
of  his  own  gate.  His  face  was  pale,  his  eyes 
deeply  ringed  and  his  head  ached  furiously,  but 
it  was  with  a  sort  of  content  that  he  took  his 
seat  in  the  early  train  for  San  Francisco.  He 
sank  into  a  reverie,  head  propped  on  hand,  that 
lasted  until  his  journey  was  almost  over;  but 
once  in  the  city,  his  old  dread  of  seeing  his  wife 
came  over  him  again,  and  it  was  only  after  a 
leisurely  luncheon  at  the  club  that  Barry  took 
a  Turk  Street  car  to  the  dingy  region  where 
Hetty  lived. 

The  row  of  dirty  bay-windowed  houses  on 
either  side  of  the  street,  and  the  dust  and  papers 
blowing  about  in  the  hot  afternoon  wind,  some- 
how reminded  him  forcibly  of  old  days  and 
ways.    With  a  sinking  heart  he  went  up  one 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  245 

of  the  flights  of  wooden  steps  and  asked  at  the 
door  for  Mrs.  Valentine.  A  Japanese  boy  in  his 
shirt-sleeves  ushered  him  into  a  front  room. 
This  was  evidently  the  "parlor";  hot  sunlight 
streamed  through  the  bay  windows;  there  was 
an  upright  piano  against  the  closed  folding 
doors,  and  a  graphophone  on  a  dusty  cherry- 
table;  wind  whined  at  the  window-casing;  one 
or  two  big  flies  buzzed  against  the  glass. 

After  a  while  Mrs.  Smiley,  the  widow  who 
conducted  this  little  boarding-house,  who  was 
a  cousin  of  Hetty  and  whom  Barry  had  known 
years  ago,  came  in.  She  was  a  tall,  angular 
blonde,  cheerlessly  resigned  to  a  cheerless  ex- 
istence. With  her  came  a  keen-faced,  freckled 
boy  of  fourteen  or  fifteen,  with  his  finger  still 
marking  a  place  in  the  book  he  had  been  reading 
aloud. 

Hetty  and  her  mother  were  out,  it  appeared. 
Mrs.  Smiley  didn't  think  they  would  be  back  to 


246  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

dinner;  in  fact,  she  reiterated  nervously,  she 
was  sure  they  wouldn't.  She  was  extremely 
and  maddeningly  non-committal.  No,  she 
didn't  know  v/hy  they  wanted  to  sell  the  Mission 
Street  flats.  She  had  warned  them  it  was  a 
silly  thing  to  bother  Barry  about  it.  No,  she 
didn't  know  when  he  could  see  them  to-morrow; 
she  guessed,  almost  any  time. 

Barry  went  away  full  of  uneasy  suspicions, 
and  more  than  ever  convinced  that  something 
was  wrong.  He  went  back  again  the  next 
morning,  but  nobody  but  the  Japanese  boy 
appeared  to  be  at  home.  But  a  visit  in  the  late 
afternoon  was  more  successful,  for  he  found 
Mrs.  Smiley  and  the  tall  son  again. 

"Hetty  is  here,  isn't  she?"  he  burst  out  sud- 
denly, in  the  middle  of  a  meaningless  conversa- 
tion. Mrs.  Smiley  turned  pale  and  tried  to 
laugh. 

"Where  else  would  she  be?"  she  demanded, 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  247 

and  she  went  back  to  her  interrupted  disserta- 
tion upon  the  unpleasantness  of  several  specified 
boarders  then  under  her  roof. 

"It  is  funny,"  Barry  mused.  "What  did  she 
say  when  she  went  out?" 

"WTiy — "  Mrs.  Smiley  began  uncomfortably, 
"But,  my  gracious,  I  wish  you  would  ask 
Aunt  Ide,  Barry!"  she  interrupted  herself  un- 
comfortably, "She'll  tell  you.  She's  the  one 
to  ask."    Aunt  Ide  was  Mrs.  Scott. 

"Tell  me  what? "  he  persisted.  "You  tell  me, 
Lulu;  that's  a  dear." 

"Auntie  '11  tell  you,"  she  repeated,  adding 
suddenly,  to  the  boy,  "Russy,  wasn't  Aunt  Ide 
in  her  room  when  you  went  up?  You  run  up 
and  see." 

"Nome,"  said  Russell  positively;  but  never- 
theless he  went. 

"Nice  kid.  Lulu,"  said  Barry  in  his  idle  way, 
"but  he  looks  thin." 


248  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

"He's  the  finest  little  feller  God  ever  sent  a 
woman,"  the  mother  answered  with  sudden 
passionate  pride.  Color  leaped  to  her  sallow 
cheeks.  "But  this  house  is  no  place  for  him  to 
be  cooped  up  reading  all  day,"  she  went  on  in 
a  worried  tone,  after  a  moment,  "and  I  can't 
let  him  run  with  the  boys  around  here;  it's  a 
regular  gang.  I  don't  know  what  I  am  going  to 
do  with  him.    'Tisn't  as  if  he  had  a  father." 

"He  wouldn't  like  to  come  up  to  me,  and  get 
broken  on  the  Mail?^^  Barry  queried  in  his 
interested  way.  "He'd  get  lots  of  fresh  air,  and 
he  could  sleep  at  my  house.  I'll  keep  an  eye  on 
him,  if  you  say  so." 

"Go  on  the  newspaper!  I  think  he'd  go 
crazy  with  joy,"  his  mother  said.  Tears  came 
into  her  faded  eyes.  "Barry,  you're  real  good- 
hearted  to  offer  it,"  she  said  gratefully.  "Of  all 
things  in  the  world,  that's  the  one  Russ  wants 
to  do.    But  won't  he  be  in  your  way?  " 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  249 

"He'll  fit  right  in,"  Barry  said.  "Pack  him 
up  and  send  him  along.  If  he  doesn't  like  it, 
I  guess  his  mother '11  let  him  come  home." 

"Like  it!"  she  echoed.  Then  in  a  lower  tone 
she  added,  "You  don't  know  what  a  load  you're 
taking  off  my  mind,  Barry."  She  paused, 
colored  again,  and,  to  his  surprise,  continued 
rapidly,  with  a  quick  glance  at  the  door,  "Barry, 
I  never  did  a  thing  like  this  before  in  my  life, 
and  I  can't  do  it  now.  You  know  how  much  I 
ov/e  Aunt  Ide:  she  took  me  in,  and  did  for  me 
just  as  she  did  for  Het,  when  I  was  a  baby;  she 
made  my  wedding  dress,  and  she  came  right  to 
me  when  Gus  died,  but  I  can't  let  you  go  back 
to  Santa  Paloma  not  knowing." 

"Not  knowing  what?"  Barry  said,  close 
upon  the  mystery  at  last. 

"You  know  what  Aunt  Ide  is,"  Mrs.  Smiley 
said  pleadingly.  "There's  not  a  mite  of  harm 
in  her,  but  she  just — You  know  she'd  been 


250  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

signing    Hetty's    checks    for    a    long    time, 
Barry " 

"Go  on,"  Barry  said,  as  she  paused  dis- 
tressedly. 

"And  she  just  went  on — "  Mrs.  Smiley  con- 
tinued simply. 

"Went  on  what?^'  Barry  demanded. 
.   "  After  Het — went.    Barry,"  the  woman  inter- 
rupted herself,  "I  oughtn't  be  the  one  to  tell  you, 
but  don't  you  see — Don't  you  see  Het's "      l 

"Dead,"  Barry  heard  his  own  voice  say 
heavily.  The  cheap  little  room  seemed  to  be 
closing  in  about  him,  he  gripped  the  back  of 
the  chair  by  which  he  was  standing.  Mrs. 
Smiley  began  to  cry  quietly.  They  stood  so 
for  a  long  time. 

After  a  while  he  sat  down,  and  she  told  him 
about  it,  with  that  faithfulness  to  inessential 
detail  that  marks  her  class.  Barry  listened  like 
a  man  in  a  dream.    Mrs.  Smiley  begged  him  to 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  251 

stay  to  dinner  to  see  "Aunt  Ide,"  but  he  re- 
fused, and  in  the  gritt}^  dusk  he  found  himself 
walking  down  the  street,  alone  in  silence  at 
last.  He  took  a  car  to  the  ocean  beach,  and 
far  into  the  night  sat  on  the  rocks  watching  the 
dark  play  of  the  rolling  Pacific,  and  listening  to 
the  steady  rush  and  fall  of  the  water. 

The  next  day  he  saw  his  wife's  mother,  and 
at  the  sight  of  her  frightened,  fat  little  face,  and 
the  sound  of  the  high  voice  he  knew  so  well,  the 
last  shred  of  his  anger  and  disgust  vanished, 
and  he  could  only  pity  her.  He  remembered 
how  welcome  she  had  made  him  to  the  little 
cottage  in  Plumas,  those  long  years  ago;  how 
she  had  laughed  at  his  youthful  appreciation  of 
her  Sunday  fried  chicken  and  cherry  pie,  and 
the  honest  tears  she  had  shed  when  he  went, 
with  the  dimpled  Hetty  beside  him,  to  tell  her 
her  daughter  was  won.  She  was  Billy's  grand- 
mother, after  all,  and  she  had  at  least  seen  that 


252  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

Hetty  was  protected  all  through  her  misguided 
httle  career  from  the  breath  of  scandal,  and 
that  Hetty's  last  days  were  made  comfortable 
and  serene.  He  assured  her  gruffly  that  it  was 
"all  right,"  and  she  presently  brightened,  and 
told  him  through  tears  that  he  was  a  "king," 
when  it  was  finally  arranged  that  she  should  go 
on  drawing  the  rents  of  the  Mission  Street 
property  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  She  and 
Mrs.  Smiley  persuaded  him  to  dine  with  them, 
and  he  thought  it  quite  characteristic  of  "Aunt 
Ide"  to  make  a  little  occasion  of  it,  and  take 
them  to  a  certain  favored  little  French  res- 
taurant for  the  meal.  But  Mrs.  Smiley  was 
tremulous  with  gratitude  and  rehef,  Russell's 
face  was  radiant,  his  adoring  eyes  all  for  Barry, 
and  Barry,  always  willing  to  accept  a  situation 
gracefully,  really  enjoyed  his  dinner. 

He  stayed  in  San  Francisco  another  day  and 
went  to  Hetty's  grave,  high  up  in  the  Piedmont 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  253 

Hills,  and  took  a  long  lonely  tramp  above  the 
college  town  afterward.  Early  the  next  morn- 
ing he  started  for  home,  fresh  from  a  bath  and 
a  good  breakfast,  and  feeling  now,  for  the  first 
time,  that  he  was  free,  and  that  it  was  good  to 
be  free — free  to  work  and  to  plan  his  life,  and 
free,  his  innermost  consciousness  exulted  to 
realize,  to  go  to  her  some  day,  the  Lady  of  his 
Heart's  Desire,  and  take  her,  with  all  the 
fragrance  and  beauty  that  were  part  of  her, 
into  his  arms.  And  oh,  the  happ}^  years  ahead; 
he  seemed  to  feel  the  sweetness  of  spring  winds 
blowing  across  them,  and  the  glow  of  winter 
fires  making  them  bright!  What  of  her  fabu- 
lous wealth,  after  all,  if  he  could  support  her 
as  she  chose  to  live,  a  simple  country  gentle- 
woman, in  a  little  country  town? 

Barry  stared  out  at  the  morning  fields  and 
hills,  where  fog  and  sunshine  were  holding  their 
daily  battle,  and  his  heart  sang  within  him. 


254  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

Fog  held  the  field  at  Santa  Paloma  when  he 
reached  it,  the  station  building  dripped  som- 
berly. Main  Street  was  but  a  line  of  vague 
shapes  in  the  mist.  No  grown  person  was  in 
sight,  but  Barry  was  not  ten  feet  from  the  train 
before  a  screaming  horde  of  small  boys  was 
upon  him,  with  shouted  news  in  which  he 
recognized  the  one  word,  over  and  over:  "Fire!" 

It  took  him  a  few  minutes  to  get  the  sense  of 
what  they  said.  He  stared  at  them  dully.  But 
when  he  first  repeated  it  to  himself  aloud,  it 
seemed  already  old  news;  he  felt  as  if  he  had 
known  it  for  a  very  long  time:  "The  Mail 
office  caught  fire  yesterday,  and  the  whole 
thing  is  burned  to  the  ground." 

"Caught  fire  yesterday,  and  the  whole  thing 
is  burned  to  the  ground:  yes,  of  course,"  Barry 
said.  He  was  not  conscious  of  starting  for  the 
scene,  he  was  simply  there.  A  fringe  of  idle 
watchers,  obscured  in  the  fog,  stood  about  the 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  255 

sunken  ruins  of  what  had  been  the  Mail  build- 
ing.   Barry  joined  them. 

He  did  not  answer  when  a  dozen  sympathetic 
murmurs  addressed  him,  because  he  was  not 
conscious  of  hearing  a  single  voice.  He  stood 
silently,  looking  down  at  the  twisted  great 
knots  of  metal  that  had  been  the  new  presses, 
the  great  wave  of  soaked  and  half-burned 
newspapers  that  had  been  the  last  issue  of  the 
Mail.  The  fire  had  been  twenty-four  hours 
ago,  but  the  ruins  were  still  smoking.  Lengths 
of  charred  woodwork,  giving  forth  a  sickening 
odor,  dripped  water  still;  here  and  there  brave 
little  spurts  of  flame  still  sucked  noisily.  A 
twisted  typewriter  stood  erect  in  steaming 
ashes;  a  lunch-basket,  with  a  red,  fringed 
napkin  in  it,  had  somehow  escaped  with  only 
a  wetting.  Barry  noticed  that  the  walls  of  the 
German  bakery  next  door  were  badly  singed, 
that  one  show-window  was  cracked  across,  and 


256  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

that  the  frosted  wedding-cake  inside  stood  in  a 
pool  of  dirty  water. 

He  was  presently  aware  that  someone  was 
telling  him  that  nobody  was  to  blame.  Details 
were  volunteered,  and  he  listened  quietly,  like 
a  dispassionate  onlooker.  "Hits  you  pretty 
hard,  Barry,"  sympathetic  voices  said. 

"Ruins  me,"  he  answered  briefly. 

And  it  dawned  upon  him  sickly  and  certainly 
that  it  was  true.  He  was  ruined  now.  All  his 
hopes  had  been  rooted  here,  in  what  was  now 
this  mass  of  wet  ashes  steaming  up  into  the  fog. 
Here  had  been  his  chance  for  a  livelihood,  and  a 
name;  his  chance  to  stand  before  the  community 
for  what  was  good,  and  strong,  and  helpful. 
He  had  been  proud  because  his  editorials  were 
beginning  to  be  quoted  here  and  there;  he  had 
been  keenly  ambitious  for  Sidney's  plans,  her 
hopes  for  Old  Paloma.  How  vain  it  all  was 
now,  and  how  preposterous  it  seemed  that  only 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  257 

an  hour  ago  he  had  let  his  thoughts  of  the 
future  include  her — always  so  far  above  him, 
and  now  so  infinitely  removed! 

She  would  be  sympathetic,  he  knew;  she 
would  be  all  kindness  and  generosity.  And 
perhaps,  six  months  ago,  he  would  have  ac- 
cepted more  generosity  from  her;  but  Barry 
had  found  himself  now,  and  he  knew  that  she 
had  done  for  him  all  he  would  let  her  do. 

He  smiled  suddenly  and  grimly  as  he  re- 
membered another  bridge,  just  burned  behind 
him.  If  he  had  not  promised  Hetty's  mother 
that  her  income  should  go  on  uninterruptedly, 
he  might  have  pulled  something  out  of  this 
wreckage,  after  all.  For  a  moment  he  specu- 
lated: he  could  sell  the  Mission  Street  property 
now;  he  might  even  revive  the  Mail,  after  a 
while 

But  no,  what  was  promised  was  promised, 
after  all,  and  poor  little  Mrs.  Scott  must  be 


258  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

left  to  what  peace  and  pleasure  the  certainty  of 
an  income  gave  her.  And  he  must  begin  again, 
somehow,  somewhere,  burdened  with  a  debt, 
burdened  with  a  heartache,  burdened  with — 
His  heart  turned  with  sudden  warmth  to  the 
thought  of  Billy;  Billy  at  least,  staunch  little 
partner  of  so  many  dark  days,  and  bright, 
should  not  be  counted  a  burden. 

Even  as  he  thought  of  his  son,  a  small  warm 
hand  slid  into  his  with  a  reassuring  pressure, 
and  he  looked  down  to  see  the  little  figure  beside 
him.  Moment  after  moment  went  by,  timid 
shafts  of  gold  sunshine  were  beginning  to  con- 
quer the  mist  now,  and  still  father  and  son 
stood  silent,  hand  in  hand. 


^p 


CHAPTER  XVII 

The  mischief  was  done;  no  use  to  stand  there 
by  the  smoking  ruins  of  what  had  been  his  one 
real  hope  for  himself  and  his  life.  After  a  while 
Barry  roused  himself.  There  seemed  to  be 
nothing  to  do  at  the  moment,  no  more  to  be 
said.  He  and  Billy  walked  up  River  Street  to 
their  own  gate,  but  when  they  reached  it, 
Barry,  obeying  an  irresistible  impulse,  merely 
left  his  coat  and  suit-case  there,  and  went  on 
through  the  Hall  gateway,  and  up  to  the  house. 

The  sun  was  coming  out  bravely  now,  and 

already   he   felt   its   warmth    in    the   garden. 

Every^^here   the   fog   was   rising,   was   fading 

against  the  green  of  the  trees.    He  followed  a 

delicious  odor  of  wood  smoke  and  the  sound 

of  voices,  to  the  barnyard,  and  here  found  the 

259 


26o  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

lady  of  the  house,  with  her  inevitable  accom- 
paniment of  interested  children.  Sidney  was 
managing  an  immense  brush  fire  with  a  long 
pole;  her  gingham  skirt  pinned  back  trimly 
over  a  striped  petticoat,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her 
hair  riotous  under  a  gipsy  hat. 

At  Barry's  first  word  she  dropped  her  pole, 
her  whole  face  grew  radiant,  and  she  came 
toward  him  holding  out  both  her  hands. 

"Barry!"  she  said  eagerly,  her  eyes  trying  to 
read  his  face,  "how  glad  I  am  you've  come! 
We  didn't  know  how  to  reach  you.  You've 
heard,  of  course — !    You've  seen ?" 

"The  poor  old  Mail}  Yes,  I'm  just  from 
there,"  he  said  soberly.    "Can  we  talk?" 

"As  long  as  you  like,"  she  answered  briskly. 
And  after  some  directions  to  the  children,  she 
led  him  to  the  little  garden  seat  below  the  side 
porch,  and  they  sat  down.  "Barry,  you  look 
tired,"  she  said  then.    "Do  you  know,  I  don't 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  261 

know  where  you've  been  all  these  days,  or  what 
you  went  for?    Was  it  to  San  Francisco?" 

"San  Francisco,  yes,"  he  assented,  "I  didn't 
dream  I'd  be  there  so  long."  He  rubbed  his 
forehead  with  a  weary  hand.  "I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it  presently,"  he  said.  "I  had  a  letter 
from  my  wife's  mother  that  worried  me,  and  I 
started  off  at  half-cock,  I  got  worrying — but  of 
course  I  should  have  written  you " 

"Don't  bother  about  that  now,  if  it  distresses 
you,"  she  sa,id  quickly  and  sympathetically. 
"Any  time  will  do  for  tliat.  I — I  knew  it  was 
something  serious,"  she  went  on,  rehef  in  her 
voice,  "or  you  wouldn't  have  simply  disap- 
peared that  way !  I — I  said  so.  Barry,  are  you 
hungry?" 

He  tried  to  laugh  at  the  maternal  attitude 
that  was  never  long  absent  in  her,  but  the  tears 
came  into  his  eyes  instead.  After  all  the  strain 
and  sleeplessness  and  despondency,  it  was  too 


262  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

poignantly  sweet  to  find  her  so  simply  cheering 
and  trustful,  in  her  gipsy  dress,  with  the 
brightening  sunlight  and  the  sweet  old  garden 
about  her.  Barry  could  have  dropped  on  his 
knees  to  bury  his  face  in  her  skirts,  and  feel 
the  motherly  hands  on  his  hair,  but  instead  he 
admitted  honestly  to  hunger  and  fatigue. 

Sidney  vanished  at  once,  and  presently  came 
back  followed  by  her  black  cook,  both  carrying 
a  breakfast  that  Barry  was  to  enjoy  at  once 
under  the  rose  vines.  Sidney  poured  his  coffee, 
and  sat  contentedly  nibbling  toast  while  he  fell 
upon  the  cold  chicken  and  blackberries. 

"Now,"  said  her  heartening  voice,  "we'll 
talk!  What  is  to  be  done  first  about  the 
Mail?'' 

"No  insurance,  you  know,"  he  began  at  once. 
"We  never  did  carry  any  in  the  old  days  and  I 
suppose  that's  why  I  didn't.  So  that  makes  it 
a  dead  loss.     Worse  than  that — for  I  wasn't 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  263 

c/ear  yet,  you  know.  The  safe  they  carried 
out;  so  the  books  are  all  right,  I  suppose,  al- 
though they  say  we  had  better  not  open  it  for  a 
few  days.  Then  I  can  settle  everything  up  as 
far  as  possible.  And  after  that — well,  I've  been 
thinking  that  perhaps  Barker,  of  the  San 
Francisco  Telegram  might  give  me  a  start  of 
some  sort — "  He  rumpled  his  hair  with  a 
desperate  gesture.  "The  thing's  come  on  me 
like  such  a  thunderbolt  that  I  really  haven't 
thought  it  out!"  he  ended  apologetically. 

"The  thing's  come  on  you  like  such  a  thun- 
derbolt," she  echoed  cheerfully,  "that  you 
aren't  taking  it  like  yourself  at  all!  The  ques- 
tion, is  if  we  work  like  Trojans  from  now  on, 
can  we  get  an  issue  of  the  Mail  out  to- 
morrow?" 

"Get  an  issue  out  to-morrow!"  he  repeated, 
staring  at  her. 

"  Certainly.    I  would  have  done  what  I  could 


264  THE  RICH  MRS.  EURGOYNE 

about  it,"  said  Sidney  briskly,  "but  not  know- 
ing where  you  were,  or  when  you  were  coming 
back,  my  hands  were  absolutely  tied.  Now, 
Barry,  listen!  ^^  she  broke  off,  not  reassured  by 
his  expression,  "and  don't  jump  at  the  con- 
clusion that  it's  impossible.  What  would  it 
mean?" 

"To  get  an  issue  of  the  Mail  out  to-morrow? 
Why,  great  Scott,  Sid,  you  don't  seem  to  realize 
that  there's  not  a  stick  left  standing!" 

"I  do  realize.  I  was  there  until  the  fire  was 
out,"  she  said  calmly.  And  for  a  few  minutes 
they  talked  of  the  fire.  Then  she  said  abruptly: 
"Would  Ferguson  let  you  use  the  old  Star 
press  for  a  few  weeks,  do  you  think?" 

"I  don't  see  why  he  should,"  Barry  said 
perversely. 

"I  don't  see  why  he  shouldn't.  I'll  tell  you 
something  you  don't  know.  Night  before  last, 
Barry,  while  I  was  down  in  the  office,  old  Fer- 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  265 

guson  himself  came  in,  and  poked  about,  and 
asked  various  questions.  Finally  he  asked  me 
what  I  thought  the  chances  were  of  your  want- 
ing to  buy  out  the  Star.  What  do  you  think 
oithat?'' 

"He's  sick  of  it,  is  he?"  Barry  said,  with 
kindling  eyes.  "Well,  we've  seen  that  coming, 
haven't  we?  I  will  be  darned ! "  He  shook  his 
head  regretfully.  "That  would  have  been  a 
big  thing  for  the  Mail,''^  he  said,  "but  it's  all 
up  now!" 

"Not  necessarily,"  the  lady  undauntedly  re- 
joined. "I've  been  thinking,  Barry,"  she  went 
on,  "if  you  reordered  the  presses,  they'd  give 
you  plenty  of  time  to  pay  for  them,  wouldn't 
they?  Might  even  take  something  off  the  price, 
under  the  circumstances?" 

"I  suppose  they  might."  He  made  an  im- 
patient gesture.    "But  that's  just  one " 

"One  item,  I  know.    But  it's  the  main  item. 


266  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

Then  you  could  rent  the  office  and  loft  over  the 
old  station,  couldn't  you?  And  move  the  old 
Star  press  in  there  this  afternoon." 

"This  afternoon,"  said  Barry  calmly. 

"Well,  we  don't  gain  anything  by  waiting. 
You  can  write  a  manly  and  affecting  editorial," 
— her  always  irrepressible  laughter  broke  out, 
"full  of  allusions  to  the  phoenix,  you  know! 
And  my  regular  Saturday  column  is  all  done, 
and  Miss  Porter  can  send  in  something,  and 
there's  any  amount  of  stuff  about  the  Folsom 
lawsuit.  And  Young,  Mason  and  Company 
ought  to  take  at  least  a  page  to  advertise  their 
premium  day  to-morrow.  I'll  come  down  as 
soon  as  you've  moved " 

Barry  reached  for  his  hat. 

"The  thing  can't  be  done,"  he  announced 
firmly,  "but,  by  George,  Sid,  you  would  give 
a  field  mouse  courage!  And  what  a  grand- 
stand play,  if  we  could  put  it  through!    There's 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  267 

not  a  second  to  be  lost,  though.  But  look  here," 
and  with  sudden  gravity  he  took  both  her 
hands,  "it'll  take  some  more  money,  you 
know." 

"I  have  some  more  money,"  she  answered 
serenely. 

"Well,  I'll  get  some!"  he  declared  emphat- 
ically. "It  won't  be  so  much,  either,  once  we 
get  started.  And  so  old  Ferguson  wanted  to 
sell,  did  he?" 

"He  did.  And  we'll  buy  the  Star  yet." 
They  were  on  the  path  now.  "Telephone  me 
when  you  can,"  she  said,  "and  don't  lose  a 
minute  now!    Good  luck!" 

And  Barry's  great  stride  had  taken  him 
half-way  down  River  Street,  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  his  mind  awhirl  with  plans,  before  it 
occurred  to  him  that  he  had  not  told  her  the 
news  of  Hetty,  after  all. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

On  that  same  afternoon,  several  of  the  most 
influential  members  of  the  Santa  Paloma 
Woman's  Club  met  informally  at  Mrs.  Carew's 
house.  Some  of  the  directors  were  there, 
Miss  Pratt,  Mrs.  Lloyd  and  Mrs.  Adams,  and 
of  course  Mrs.  White,  who  had  indeed  been 
instrumental  in  arranging  the  meeting.  They 
had  met  to  discuss  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  plan  of 
using  the  clubhouse  as  a  meeting  place  for  the 
Old  Paloma  factory  girls.  All  these  ladies  were 
quite  aware  that  their  verdict,  however  un- 
official, would  influence  the  rest  of  the  club, 
and  that  what  this  group  of  a  dozen  or  fifteen 
decided  upon  to-day  would  practicaUy  settle 
the  matter. 

Mrs.   Willard  White,  hitherto  serenely  su- 

268 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  269 

prerne  in  this  little  world,  was  curiously  upset 
about  the  whole  thing,  openly  opposed  to 
Mrs.  Burgoyne's  suggestion,  and  surprised  that 
her  mere  wish  in  the  matter  was  not  sufficient 
to  carry  a  negative  vote.  Her  contention  was 
that  the  clubhouse  had  been  built  for  very 
different  purposes  than  those  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
proposed,  and  that  charity  to  the  Old  Paloma 
girls  had  no  part  in  the  club's  original  reasons 
for  being.  She  meant,  in  the  course  of  the 
argument,  to  hint  that  while  so  many  of  the 
actual  necessities  of  decent  living  were  lacking 
in  the  factory  settlement  homes,  mere  dancing 
and  moving-pictures  did  not  appeal  to  her  as 
reasonable  or  right;  and  although  uneasily 
aware  that  she  supported  the  unpopular  argu- 
ment, still  she  was  confident  of  an  eventual 
triumph. 

But    despite    the    usual    laughter,    and    the 
pleasantries  and  compliments,  there  was  an  air 


270  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

of  deadly  earnestness  about  the  gathered  club- 
women to-day  that  bespoke  a  deeper  interest 
than  was  common  in  the  matter  up  for  dis- 
cussion. The  President's  color  rose  and  deep- 
ened steadily,  as  the  afternoon  wore  on,  and 
one  voice  after  another  declared  for  the  new 
plan,  and  her  arguments  became  a  little  less 
impersonal  and  a  little  more  sharp.  This  was 
especially  noticeable  when,  as  was  inevitable, 
the  name  of  Mrs.  Burgoyne  was  introduced, 

"I  personally  feel,"  said  Mrs.  White  finally, 
"that  perhaps  we  Santa  Paloma  women  are 
just  a  little  bit  undignified  when  we  allow  a 
perfect  stranger  to  come  in  among  us,  and  in- 
fluence our  lives  so  materially,  just  because  she 
happens  to  be  a  multi-millionaire.  Are  we  so 
swayed  by  mere  money?  I  hope  not.  I  hope 
we  all  live  our  lives  as  suits  us  best,  not  to 
please — or  shall  I  say  flatter,  and  perhaps  win 
favor  with? — a  rich  woman.    We — some  of  us, 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  271 

that  is!" — her  smile  was  all  lenience — "have 
suddenly  decided  we  can  dress  more  simply, 
have  suddenly  decided  to  put  our  girls  into 
gingham  rompers,  and  instead  of  giving  them 
little  dancing  parties,  let  them  play  about  like 
boys!  We  wonder  why  we  need  spend  our 
money  on  imported  hats  and  nice  dinners  and 
hand-embroidered  underwear,  and  Oriental 
rugs,  although  we  thought  these  things  very 
well  worth  having  a  few  months  ago — and 
why?  Just  because  we  are  easily  led,  I'm 
afraid,  and  not  quite  conscious  enough  of  our 
own  dignity!" 

There  had  been  a  decided  heightening  of 
color  among  the  listening  women  during  this 
little  speech,  and,  as  the  President  finished, 
more  than  one  pair  of  eyes  rested  upon  her 
with  a  slightly  resentful  steadiness.  There  v/as 
a  short  silence,  in  which  several  women  were 
gathering  their  thoughts  for  speech,  but  Mrs. 


272  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

Brown,  always  popular  in  Santa  Paloma,  from 
the  days  of  her  short  braids  and  short  dresses, 
and  quite  the  youngest  among  them  to-day, 
was  the  first  to  speak. 

''I  daresay  that  is  quite  true,  Mrs.  White," 
said  Mrs.  Brown,  with  dignity,  "except  that 
I  don't  think  Mrs.  Burgoyne's  money  influences 
me,  or  any  of  us !  I  admit  that  she  herself,  quite 
apart  from  her  great  fortune,  has  influenced 
me  tremendously  in  lots  of  ways,  but  I  don't 
think  she  ever  tried  to  do  it,  or  realizes  that  she 
has.  And  as  far  as  copying  goes,  don't  we 
women  always  copy  somebody,  anyway?  Aren't 
we  always  imitating  the  San  Francisco  women, 
and  don't  they  copy  New  York,  and  doesn't 
New  York  copy  London  or  Paris?  We  read 
what  feathers  are  in,  and  how  skirts  are  cut, 
and  how  coffee  and  salads  are  served,  and  we 
all  do  it,  or  try  to.  And  when  Mrs.  Burgoyne 
came  to  the  Hall,  and  never  took  one  particle 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  273 

of  interest  in  that  sort  of  thing,  I  just  thought 
it  over  and  wondered  why  I  should  attempt  to 
impress  a  woman  who  could  buy  this  whole 
town  and  not  miss  the  money?" 

Laughter  interrupted  her,  and  some  sym- 
pathetic clapping,  but  she  presently  went  on 
seriously : 

"I  took  all  the  boys'  white  socks  one  day, 
and  dyed  them  dark  brown.  And  I  dyed  all 
their  white  suits  dark  blue.  I've  gotten  myself 
some  galatea  dresses  that  nothing  tears  or 
spoils,  and  that  come  home  fresh  and  sweet 
from  the  wash  every  week.  And,  as  a  result, 
I  actually  have  some  time  to  spare,  for  the  first 
time  since  I  was  married.  We  are  going  to  try 
some  educational  experiments  on  the  children 
this  winter,  and,  if  that  leaves  any  leisure,  I 
am  heart  and  soul  for  this  new  plan.  Doctor 
Brown  feels  as  I  do.  Of  course,  he's  a  doctor,'* 
said  the  loyal  little  wife,  ''and  he  knows!    And 


2  74  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

he  says  that  all  those  Old  Paloma  girls  want  is 
a  little  mothering,  and  that  when  there  are 
mothers  enough  to  go  round,  there  won't  be 
any  charity  or  legislation  needed  in  this  world. " 
"I  think  you've  said  it  all,  for  all  of  us, 
Mary!"  Mrs.  Carew  said,  when  some  affec- 
tionate applause  had  subsided.  "I  think  things 
were  probably  different,  a  few  generations 
ago,"  she  went  on,  "but  nowadays  when  fash- 
ions are  so  arbitrary,  and  change  so  fast,  really 
and  honestly,  some  of  us,  whose  incomes  are 
limited,  will  have  to  stop  somewhere.  Why, 
the  very  cliildren  expect  box-parties,  and 
motor-trips,  and  caterers'  suppers,  in  these 
days.  And  one  wouldn't  mind,  if  it  left  time 
for  home  life,  and  reading,  and  family  inter- 
course, but  it  doesn't.  We  don't  know  what 
our  children  are  studying,  what  they're  think- 
ing about,  or  what  life  means  to  them  at  all, 
because  we  are  too  busy  answering  the  tele- 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  275 

phone,  and  planning  clothes,  and  writing  formal 
notes,  and  going  to  places  we  feel  we  ought  to 
be  seen  in.  I'm  having  more  fun  than  I  had 
in  years,  helping  our  children  plan  some  abridged 
plays  from  Shakespeare,  with  the  Burgoyne 
girls,  for  this  winter,  and  I'm  perfectly  as- 
tonished, even  though  I'm  their  mother,  at 
their  enjoyment  of  it,  and  at  my  own.  Mr. 
Carew  himself,  who  never  takes  much  interest 
in  that  sort  of  thing,  asked  me  why  they  couldn't 
give  them  for  the  Old  Paloma  Girls'  Club,  if 
they  get  a  club  room.  I  didn't  know  he  even 
knew  anything  about  our  club  plans.  I  said, 
*  George,  are  you  willing  to  have  Jeannette  get 
interested  in  that  crowd?'  and  he  said,  'Finest 
thing  in  the  world  for  her!'  and  I  don't  know," 
finished  Mrs.  Carew,  thoughtfully,  "but  what 
he's  right." 

"I'm  all  for  it,"  said  breezy  Mrs.  Lloyd,  "I 
don't  imagine  I'd  be  any  good  at  actually  talk- 


276  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

ing  to  them,  but  I  would  go  to  the  dances,  and 
introduce  people,  and  trot  partners  up  to  the 
wallflowers ' ' 

There  was  more  laughter,  and  then  Mrs. 
Adams  said  briskly: 

"Well,  let's  take  an  informal  vote!" 

"I  don't  think  that's  necessary,  Sue,"  said 
Mrs.  White,  generously,  "I  think  I  am  the 
only  one  of  us  who  believes  in  preserving  the 
tradition  of  the  dear  old  club,  and  I  must  bow 
to  the  majority,  of  course.  Perhaps  it  will  be  a 
little  hard  to  see  strangers  there;  our  pretty 
floors  ruined,  and  our  pretty  walls  spotted, 
but — "  an  eloquent  shrug,  and  a  gesture  of  her 
pretty  hands  finished  the  sentence  with  the 
words,  ''isn't  that  the  law?" 

And  upon  whole-hearted  applause  for  Mrs. 
White,  Mrs.  Carew  tactfully  introduced  the 
subject  of  tea. 

They  were  all  chatting  amicably  enough  in 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  277 

the  dining-room  a  few  minutes  later  when 
George  Carew  and  Barry  Valentine  came  in. 
Barry,  who  seemed  excited,  exhilarated  and 
tired,  had  come  to  borrow  a  typewriter  from 
the  Carews.  He  responded  to  sympathetic 
inquiries,  that  he  had  been  working  like  a  mad- 
man since  noon,  and  that  there  would  be  an 
issue  of  the  Mail  ready  for  them  in  the  morn- 
ing. He  said,  "everyone  had  been  simply 
corking  about  everything,"  and  it  began  to 
look  like  smooth  sailing  now.  In  the  few  min- 
utes that  he  waited  for  young  George  Carew  to 
fmd  the  typewriter  and  bring  it  down  to  him, 
a  fresh  interruption  occurred  in  the  entrance 
of  old  Mrs.  Apostleman. 

Mrs.  Apostleman,  between  being  out  of  breath 
from  hurrying  up  the  hill  in  the  late  after- 
noon heat,  and  fearful  that  the  gathering  would 
break  up  before  she  could  say  what  she  wanted 
to  say,  and  entirely  unable  to  control  her  gasp- 


278  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

ing  and  puffing,  was  a  sight  at  once  funny  and 
pitiable.  As  she  sank  into  a  comfortable  chair 
she  held  up  one  fat  hand  to  command  attention, 
and  with  the  other  laid  forcible  hold  upon 
Barry  Valentine.  Three  or  four  of  the  younger 
women  hurried  to  her  with  fans  and  tea,  and  in 
a  moment  or  two  she  really  could  manage  dis- 
connected words. 

"Thanks,  me  dear.  No,  no  cake.  Just  a 
mouthful  of  tea  to — there,  that's  better!  I  was 
afraid  ye'd  all  be  gone — that'll  do,  thank  ye, 
Susie!  Well,"  she  set  down  her  tea-cup,  "well! 
I've  a  little  piece  of  news  for  you  all — don't  go, 
Barry,  you'll  be  interested  in  this,  and  I  couldn't 
wait  to  come  up  and  tell  ye!"  She  began  to 
fumble  in  her  bag,  and  presently  produced 
therefrom  her  eye-glasses  and  a  letter.  The 
latter  she  opened  with  a  great  crackling  of 
paper. 

"This  is  from  me  brother,  Alexander  Weth- 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  279 

erall,"  said  she,  with  an  impressive  glance  over 
her  glasses.  "As  ye  know,  he's  a  family  lawyer 
in  New  York,  he  has  the  histories  of  half  the 
old  families  in  the  country  pigeon-holed  away 
in  those  old  offices  of  his.  He  doesn't  write  me 
very  often;  his  wife  does  now  and  then — stupid 
woman,  but  nice.  However,  I  wrote  him  in 
May,  and  told  him  Mrs.  Burgoyne  had  bought 
the  Hall,  and  just  asked  him  what  he  knew 
about  her  and  her  people.  Here — "  marking  a 
certain  line  with  a  pudgy,  imperative  finger, 
she  handed  a  page  of  the  letter  to  Barry,  ''read 
from  there  on,"  she  commanded,  "this  is  what 
he  says." 

Barry  took  the  paper,  but  hesitated. 

"It's  all  right!"  said  the  old  lady,  impa- 
tiently,  "nobody  could  say  anything  that 
wasn't  good  about  Sidney  Burgoyne." 

Thus  reassured,  Barry  turned  obediently  to 
the  indicated  place. 


28o  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

"'You  ask  me  about  your  new  neighbor,'" 
he  read,  "'I  suppose  of  course  you  know  that 
she  is  Paul  Frothingham's  only  child  by  his 
second  marriage.  Her  mother  died  while  she 
was  a  baby,  and  Frothinghara  took  her  all  over 
the  world  with  him,  wherever  he  went.  She 
married  very  young,  Colonel  John  Burgoyne, 
of  the  Maryland  family,  older  than  she,  but  a 
very  fine  fellow.  As  a  girl  and  as  his  wife  she 
had  an  extraordinary  opportunity  for  social 
success,  she  was  a  great  favorite  in  the  diplo- 
matic circle  at  Washington,  and  well  known  in 
the  best  London  set,  and  in  the  European 
capitals.  She  seems  to  be  quite  a  remarkable 
young  woman,  but  you  are  all  wrong  about  her 
money;  she  is  very  far  from  rich.    She ' " 

Barry  stopped  short.  Mrs.  Apostleman 
cackled  delightedly;  no  one  else  stirred. 

"'She  got  very  Httle  of  Frothingham's 
money,'"  Barry  presently  read  on,  "'it  came  to 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  281 

him  from  his  first  wife,  who  was  a  widow  with 
two  daughters  when  he  married  her.  The 
money  naturally  reverted  to  her  girls,  Mrs. 
Fred  Senior  and  Mrs.  Spencer  Mack,  both  of 
this  city.'" 

"Ha!  D'ye  get  that?"  said  Mrs.  Apostle- 
man.    "Go  on!" 

"  *  Frothingham  left  his  own  daughter  some- 
thing considerably  less  than  a  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars,'"  Barry  presently  resumed,  "'not 
more  than  seventy  or  eighty  thousand,  cer- 
tainly. It  is  still  invested  in  the  estate.  It 
must  pay  her  three  or  four  thousand  a  year. 
And  besides  that  she  has  only  Burgoyne's  in- 
surance, twenty  or  twenty-five  thousand,  for 
those  years  of  illness  pretty  well  used  up  his 
own  money.  I  believe  the  stepsisters  were 
very  anxious  to  make  her  a  more  generous  ar- 
rangement, but  she  seems  to  have  declined  it. 
Alice  says  they  are  quite  devoted '" 


282  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

"Alice  don't  count!"  said  the  old  lady, 
''that's  his  wife.  That's  enough."  She  stopped 
the  reader  and  refolded  the  letter,  her  mis- 
chievous eyes  dancing.  "Well,  what  d'ye  think 
of  that?"  she  demanded. 

Barry's  bewildered,  "Well,  I  will  be  darned!" 
set  loose  a  babel  of  tongues.  Mrs.  Apostleman 
had  not  counted  in  vain  upon  a  sensation; 
everyone  talked  at  once.  Mrs.  White's  high, 
merry  laugh  dominated  all  the  other  voices. 

"So  there  is  a  very  much  better  reason  for 
this  simple-dinner-blue-gingham  existence  than 
we  supposed,"  said  the  President  of  the  Santa 
Paloma  Women's  Club  amusedly  when  the 
first  rush  of  comment  died  away.  "I  think 
that  is  quite  delicious!  WTiile  all  of  us  were 
feeling  how  superior  she  was  not  to  get  a  motor, 
and  not  to  rebuild  the  Hall,  she  was  simply 
living  within  her  income,  and  making  the  best 
of  it!" 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  283 

"I  don't  know  that  it  makes  her  any  less 
superior,"  Mrs.  Carew  said  thoughtfully.  "It — 
it  certainly  makes  her  seem — nicer.  I  never 
suspected  her  of — well,  of  preaching,  exactly, 
but  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  she  really 
couldn't  enter  into  our  point  of  view,  with  all 
that  money!  I  think  I'm  going  to  like  her 
more  than  ever!"  she  finished  laughingly. 

"Why,  it's  the  greatest  relief  in  the  world!" 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Adams.  "I've  been  rather  hold- 
ing back  about  going  up  there,  and  imitating  her, 
because  I  honestly  didn't  want  to  be  influenced 
by  eight  millions,  and  I  was  afraid.  I  was. 
Not  a  week  ago  Wayne  asked  me  if  I  thought 
she'd  like  him  to  donate  a  sewing  machine 
to  her  Girls'  Club  for  them  to  run  up  their 
little  costumes  with — he  has  the  agency,  you 
know — and  I  said,  *0h,  don't,  Wayne,  she  can 

buy  them  a  sewing  machine  apiece  if  she  wants 
to,  and  never  know  it!'    But  I'm  going  to  make 


284  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

him  write  her,  to-night,''^  said  Mrs.  Adams, 
firmly,  "and  I  declare  I  feel  as  if  a  weight  had 
dropped  off  my  shoulders.  It  means  so  much 
more  now,  if  we  offer  her  the  club.  It  means 
that  we  aren't  merely  giving  a  Lady  Bountiful 
her  way,  but  that  we're  all  working  together 
like  neighbors,  and  trying  to  do  some  good  in 
the  world." 

"And  I  don't  think  there's  any  question  that 
she  would  live  exactly  this  way,"  Miss  Pratt 
contributed  shyly,  "and  play  with  the  children, 
and  dress  as  she  does,  even  if  she  had  fifty 
minions !  She's  simply  found  out  what  pays  in 
this  life,  and  what  doesn't  pay,  and  I  think  a 
good  many  of  us  were  living  too  hard  and  fast 
ever  to  stop  and  think  whether  it  was  really 
worth  while  or  not.  She's  the  happiest  woman 
I  ever  knew;  it  makes  one  happy  just  to  be 
with  her,  and  no  money  can  buy  that. " 

"But  it's  curious  she  never  has  taken  the 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURG0YNE  285 

trouble  to  undeceive  us,"  said  Mrs.  White  be- 
ginning to  fit  on  an  immaculate  pair  of  white 
gloves,  finger  by  finger. 

"Why — you'll  see! — She  never  dreamed  we 
thought  she  was  anything  but  one  of  ourselves. " 
Mrs.  Brown  predicted.  "Why  should  she? 
When  did  she  ever  speak  of  money,  or  take  the 
least  interest  in  money?  She  never  speaks  of 
it.  She  says  'I  can't  afford  the  time,  or  I  can't 
afford  the  effort,'  that's  what  counts  with  her. 
Doesn't  it,  Barry?" 

"Barry,  do  you  really  suppose — "  Mrs. 
Carew  was  beginning,  as  she  turned  to  the 
doorway  where  he  had  been  standing. 

But  Barry  had  gone. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Barry  went  straight  up  to  the  Hall,  but  Sid- 
ney was  not  there.  Joanna  and  Ellen,  busily 
murmuring  over  "Flower  Ladies"  on  the  wide 
terrace  steps,  told  him  that  Mother  was  to  be 
late  to  supper,  and,  with  obviously  forced 
hospitality  and  one  eye  upon  their  little  families 
of  inverted  roses  and  hollyhocks,  asked  him  to 
wait.    Barry  thanked  them,  but  couldn't  wait. 

He  went  like  a  man  in  a  dream  down  River 
Street,  past  gardens  that  glowed  with  fragrant 
beauty,  and  under  the  great  trees  and  the 
warm,  sunset  sky.  And  what  a  good  world  it 
seemed  to  be  alive  in,  and  what  a  friendly 
village  in  which  to  find  work  and  love  and  con- 
tent.   A  dozen  returning  householders,  stopping 

at  their  gates,  wanted  the  news  of  his  venture, 

286 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  287 

a  dozen  freshly-clad,  interested  women,  water- 
ing lawns  in  the  shade,  called  out  to  wish  him 
good  fortune.  And  always,  before  his  eyes,  the 
thought  of  the  vanished  millions  danced  like 
a  star.  She  was  not  infinitely  removed,  she  was 
not  set  apart  by  great  fortune,  she  was  only  the 
sweetest  and  best  of  women,  to  be  wooed  and 
won  like  any  other.  He  ran  upstairs  and  flung 
open  the  door  of  the  little  bare  new  office  of  the 
Mail,  like  an  impetuous  boy.  There  was  no 
one  there.  But  a  v/ide  white  hat  with  a  yellow 
rose  pinned  on  it  hung  above  the  new  oak  desk 
in  the  comer,  and  his  heart  rose  at  the  sight. 
His  own  desk  had  an  improvised  drop  light 
hung  over  it;  he  lowered  the  typewriter  from 
his  cramped  arm  upon  a  mass  of  clippings  and 
notes.  Beyond  this  room  was  the  great  bare 
loft,  where  two  or  three  oily  men  were  still  toil- 
ing in  the  fading  light  over  the  establishing  of 
the  old  Star  press.      Sashes  had  been   taken 


288  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

from  one  of  the  big  windows  to  admit  the  en- 
trance of  the  heavier  parts;  thick  pulley  ropes 
dangled  at  the  sill.  Great  unopened  bundles  of 
gray  paper  filled  the  center  of  the  floor,  a  slim 
amused  youth  was  putting  the  finishing  touches 
to  a  telephone  on  the  wall,  and  Sidney,  bare- 
headed, very  business-like  and  keenly  interested, 
was  watching  everybody  and  making  sugges- 
tions. She  greeted  Barry  with  a  cheerful  wave 
of  the  hand. 

"There  you  are!"  she  said,  relievedly. 
''Come  and  see  what  you  think  of  this.  Do 
you  know  this  ofi5ce  is  going  to  be  much  nicer 
than  the  old  one?  How  goes  everything  with 
you?" 

''Like  lightning!"  he  answered.  "At  this 
rate,  there's  nothing  to  it  at  all.  Have  the  press 
boys  showed  up  yet?" 

"They  are  over  at  the  hotel,  getting  their 
dinners,"  she  explained.     "And  we  have  bor- 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  289 

rowed  lamps  from  the  hotel  to  use  here  this 
evening.  Did  you  hear  that  Martin,  of  the 
Press,  you  know,  has  offered  to  send  over  the 
A.  P.  news  as  fast  as  it  comes  in?  Isn't  that 
very  decent  of  him?  Here's  Miss  Porter's 
stuff." 

She  sat  down,  and  began  to  assort  papers  on 
her  desk,  quite  absorbed  in  what  she  was  doing. 
Barry,  at  his  own  desk,  opened  and  shut  a 
drawer  or  two  noisily,  but  he  was  really  watch- 
ing her,  with  a  thumping  heart.  Watching  the 
bare  brown  head,  the  lowered  lashes,  the  mouth 
that  moved  occasionally  in  time  with  her  busy 
thoughts 

Suddenly  she  looked  up,  and  their  eyes  met. 

Without  the  faintest  consciousness  of  what  he 
did,  Barry  crossed  the  floor  between  them,  and 
as,  on  an  equally  unconscious  impulse,  she 
stood  up,  paling  and  breathless,  he  laid  his 
hand  over  hers  on  the  littered  desk,  and  they 


2 go  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYHE 

stood  so,  staring  at  each  other,  the  desk  be- 
tween them. 

"Sidney,"  he  said  incoherently,  "who — 
where — where  did  your  father's  money  go — 
who  got  it?" 

She  looked  at  him  in  utter  bewilderment. 

"Where  did  what — father's  money?  Who 
got  it?    Are  you  crazy,  Barry?"  she  stammered. 

"Ah,  Sidney,  tell  me!    Did  it  come  to  you?" 

"Why — why — "  She  seemed  suddenly  to 
understand  that  there  was  some  reason  for  the 
question,  and  answered  quite  readily:  "It  be- 
longed to  my  father's  first  wife,  Barry,  most  of 
it.  And  it  went  to  her  daughters,  my  step- 
sisters, they  are  older  than  I  and  both  mar- 
ried  ' 

"  Then  you're  not  worth  eight  million  dollars?  " 

"I — ?  Why,  you  know  I'm  not!"  Her  eyes 
were  at  their  widest.  "Who  ever  said  I  was? 
/  never  said  so!" 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  291 

"But  everyone  in  town  thinks  so!"  Barry's 
great  sigh  of  relief  came  from  his  very  soul. 

Sidney,  pale  before,  grew  very  red.  She 
freed  her  hands,  and  sat  down. 

"Well,  they  are  very  silly,  then!"  she  said, 
almost  crossly.  And  as  the  thought  expanded, 
she  added,  "But  I  don't  see  how  anyone  could! 
They  must  have  thought  my  letting  them  help 
me  out  with  the  Flower  Show  and  begging  for 
the  Old  Paloma  girls  was  a  nice  piece  of  affec- 
tation! If  I  had  eight  million  dollars,  or  one 
million,  don't  you  suppose  I'd  be  doing  some- 
thing, instead  of  puttering  away  with  just  the 
beginning  of  things!"  The  annoyed  color 
deepened.  "I  hope  you're  mistaken,  Barry," 
said  she.    "Why  didn't  you  set  them  right?" 

"I!    Wliy,  I  thought  so  too!" 

"Oh,  Barry!  What  a  h>pocrite  you  must 
have  thought  me!"  She  buried  her  rosy  face 
in  her  hand  for  a  moment.    Presently  she  rushed 


292  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

on,  half  indignantly,  " — With  all  my  talk  about 
the  sinfulness  of  American  women,  who  per- 
sistently attempt  a  scheme  of  living  that  is  far 
beyond  their  incomes!  And  talking  of  the  needs 
of  the  poor  all  over  the  world,  with  all  that 
money  lying  idle ! " 

"I  thought  of  it  chiefly  as  an  absolute  and 
immovable  barrier  between  us,"  Barry^  said 
honestly,  "and  that  was  as  far  as  my  thinking 
went." 

Her  eyes  met  his  with  that  curious  courage 
she  had  when  a  diihcult  moment  had  to  be  faced. 

"There  is  a  more  serious  barrier  than  that  be- 
tween us,"  she  reminded  him  gravely. 

"Hetty!"  he  said  stupidly.  "But  I  told 
you " 

But  he  stopped  short,  realizing  that  he  had 
not  yet  told  her,  and  rather  at  a  loss. 

"You  didn't  tell  me  anything,"  she  said, 
eyeing  him  steadily. 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  293 

"Why,"  Barry's  tone  was  much  lower,  "I 
meant  to  tell  you  first  of  all,  but — you  know 
what  a  day  I  have  had!  It  seems  impossible 
that    I    only   left    San   Francisco   this   morn- 

ing." 

He  brought  his  chair  from  his  own  desk,  and 
sat  opposite  her,  and,  while  the  summer  twi- 
light outside  deepened  into  dusk,  unmindful  of 
time,  he  went  over  the  pitiful  little  story. 
Sidney  listened,  her  serious  eyes  never  leaving 
his  face,  her  fine  hands  locked  idly  before  her. 
The  telephone  boy  and  the  movers  had  gone 
now,  and  there  was  silence  all  about. 

"You  have  suffered  enough,  Barr}^;  thank 
God  it  is  all  over!"  she  said,  at  the  end,  "and 
we  know,"  she  went  on,  with  one  of  her  rare 
revelations  of  the  spiritual  deeps  that  lay  so 
close  to  the  surface  of  her  life,  "we  know  that 
she  is  safe  and  satisfied  at  last,  in  His  care." 
For   a   moment   her   absent   eyes   seemed   to 


294  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

fathom  far  spaces.  Barry  abruptly  broke  the 
silence. 

"For  one  year,  Sidney,"  he  said,  in  a  purpose- 
ful, steady  voice  that  was  new  to  her,  and  that 
brought  licr  eyes,  almost  startled,  to  his  face, 
''for  one  year  I'm  going  to  show  you  what  I 
can  do.  In  that  time  the  Mail  will  be  where 
it  was  before  the  fire,  if  all  goes  well.  And 
then " 

"Then — "  she  said,  a  httle  unsteadily,  rising 
and  gathering  hat  and  gloves  together,  "then 
you  shall  come  to  me  and  tell  me  anything 
you  like!  But— but  not  now!  All  this  is  so  new 
and  so  strange " 

"Ah,  but  Sidney!"  he  pleaded,  taking  her 
hands  again,  "mayn't  I  speak  of  it  just  this 
one  day,  and  then  never  again?  Let  me  think 
for  this  whole  year  that  perhaps  you  will  marry 
a  country  editor,  and  that  we  shall  spend  the 
rest  of  our  lives  together,  writing  and  planning, 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  295 

and  tramping  through  the  woods,  and  picnick- 
ing with  the  kiddies  on  the  river,  and  giving 
Christmas  parties  for  every  Httle  rag-tag  and 
bob-tail  in  Old  Paloma!" 

"But  you  don't  want  to  settle  down  in  this 
stupid  village,"  she  laughed  tremulously,  tears 
on  her  lashes,  "at  the  ugly  old  Hall,  and  among 
these  superficial  empty-headed  women?" 

"Just  here,"  he  said,  smiling  at  his  pwn 
words,  "in  the  sweetest  place  in  the  world, 
among  the  best  neighbors!  I  never  want  to  go 
anywhere  else.  Our  friends  are  here,  our  work 
is  here " 

"And  we  are  here!"  she  finished  it  for  him, 
laughing.  Barry,  with  a  great  rising  breath, 
put  his  arms  about  the  white  figure,  and  crushed 
her  to  him,  and  Sidney  laid  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  and  raised  her  face  honestly  for  his 
first  kiss. 

"And  now  let  me  go  home  to  my  neglected 


296  THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE 

girls,"  she  said,  after  an  interval.  "You  have 
a  busy  night  ahead  of  you,  and  your  press  boys 
will  be  here  any  minute." 

But  first  she  took  a  sheet  of  yellow  copy 
paper,  and  wrote  on  it,  "One  year  of  silence. 
August  thirtieth  to  August  thirtieth."  "Is  this 
inclusive?"  she  asked,  looking  up. 

"Exclusive,"  said  Barry,  firmly. 

"Exclusive,"  she  echoed  obediently.  And 
when  she  had  added  the  word,  she  folded  the 
sheet  and  gave  it  to  Barry.  "There  is  a  little 
reminder  for  you,"  said  she. 

Barry  went  down  to  the  street  door  with  her, 
to  watch  her  start  homeward  in  the  sweet 
summer  darkness. 

"Oh,  one  more  thing  I  meant  to  say,"  she 
said,  as  they  stood  on  the  platform  of  what 
had  been  the  old  station,  "I  don't  know  why 
I  haven't  said  it  already,  or  why  you 
haven't." 


THE  RICH  MRS.  BURGOYNE  297 

"And  that  is,  Madam — ?"  he  asked  atten- 
tively. 

"It's  just  this,"  she  swayed  a  little  nearer  to 
him — her  laughing  voice  was  no  more  than  a 
whisper.    "I  love  you,  Barry!" 

"Haven't  I  said  that?"  he  asked  a  little 
hoarsely. 

"Not  yet." 

"Then  I  say  it,"  he  answered  steadily,  "I 
love  you,  my  darling!" 

"Oh,  not  here,  Barry — in  the  street!"  was 
Mrs.  Burgoyne's  next  remark. 

But  there  was  no  moon,  and  no  witnesses  but 
the  blank  walls  and  shuttered  windows  of 
neighboring  storehouses.  And  the  silent  year 
had  not,  after  all,  fairly  begun. 


STORIES  OF  RARE  CHARM  BY 

GENE  STRATTON-PORTER 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grotset  and  Cuntap's  llrt 


THE  HARVESTER. 


LADDIE. 

Illustrated  by  Herman  Pfaifer. 

This  is  a  bright,  cheery  tale  with  the 
scenes  laid  in  Indiana.  The  story  is  told 
by  Little  Sister,  the  youngest  member  of 
a  large  family,  but  it  is  concerned  not  so 
much  with  childish  doings  as  with  the  love 
affairs  of  older  members  of  the  family. 
Chief  among  them  is  that  of  Laddie,  the 
older  brother  whom  Little  Sister  adores, 
and  the  Princess,  an  English  girl  who  has 
come  to  live  in  the  neighborhood  and  about 
whose  family  there  hangs  a  mystery. 
There  is  a  wedding  midway  in  the  book 
and  a  double  wedding  at  the  close. 
Illustrated  by  W.  L.  Jacobs. 

"The  Harvester,"  David  Langston,  is  a  man  of  the  woods  and 
fields,  who  draws  his  living  from  the  prodigal  hand  of  Mother 
Nature  herself.  If  the  book  had  nothing  in  it  but  the  splendid  figure 
of  this  man  it  would  be  notable.  But  when  the  Girl  comes  to  his 
"Medicine  Woods,"  and  the  Harvester's  whole  being  reali'^-es  that 
this  is  the  highest  point  of  life  which  has  come  to  him— there  begins 
a  romance  of  the  rarest  idyllic  quality. 
FRECKLES,     Decorations  by  E.  Stetson  Crawford. 

Freckles  is  a  nameless  waif  when  the  tale  opens,  but  the  way  in 
which  he  takes  hold  of  life;  the  nature  friendships  he  forms  in  the 
great  Limberlost  Swamp;  the  manner  in  which  everyone  who  meets 
him  succumbs  to  the  charm  of  his  engaging  personality;  and  his 
love-story  with  "The  Ang^l"  are  full  of  real  sentiment. 
A  GIRL  OF  THE  LIMBERLOST. 
Illustrated  by  Wladyslaw  T.  Brenda. 

The  story  of  a  girl  of  the  Michigan  woods;  a  buoyant,  lovab/e 
type  of  the  self-reliant  American.  Her  philosophy  is  one  of  love  and 
kindness  towards  all  things;  her  hope  is  never  dimmed.  And  by  the 
sheer  beauty  of  her  soul,  and  the  purity  of  her  vision,  she  wims  from 
barren  and  unpromising  surroundings  those  rewards  of  high  courage. 

AT  THE  FOOT  OF  THE  RAINBOW. 
Illustrations  in  colors  by  Oliver  Kemp. 

The  scene  of  this  charming  love  story  is  laid  in  Central  Indiana. 
The  story  is  one  of  devoted  friendship,  and  tender  self-sacrificing 
love.  The  novel  is  brimful  of  the  most  beautiful  word  painting  of 
nature,  and  its  pathos  and  tender  sentiment  will  endear  it  to  all. 


Grosset  &  DuNLAP,      Publishers,      New  York 


MYRTLE    REED^S    NOVELS 

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DERiOU) 
>..JLACE1 


BY 
MYRTLE  REED 


LAVENDER  AND  OLD  LACE. 

A  charming  story  of  a  quaint  corner  of 
New  England  where  bygone  romance  finds  a 
modem  parallel.  The  story  centers  round 
the  coming  of  love  to  the  young  people  on 
the  staff  of  a  newspaper — and  it  is  one  of  the 
prettiest,  sweetest  and  quaintest  of  old  fash- 
ioned love  stories,  *  *  »  a  rare  book,  ex- 
quisite in  spirit  and  conception,  full  of 
delicate  fancy,  of  tenderness,  of  delightful 
humor  and  spontaniety. 


A  SPINNER  IN  THE  SUN. 

Miss  Myrtle  Reed  may  always  be  depended  upon  to  write  a  story 
in  which  poetry,  charm,  tenderness  and  humor  are  combined  into  a 
clever  and  entertaining  book.  Her  characters  are  delightful  and  she 
always  displays  a  quaint  humor  of  expression  and  a  quiet  feeling  of 
pathos  which  give  a  touch  of  active  realism  to  all  her  writings.  In 
"A  Spinner  in  the  Sun"  she  tells  an  old-fashioned  love  story,  of  a 
veiled  lady  who  lives  In  solitude  and  whose  features  her  neighbors 
have  never  seen.  There  is  a  mystery  at  the  heart  of  the  book  that 
throws  over  it  the  glamour  of  romance. 

THE    MASTER'S    VIOLIN, 

A  love  story  in  a  musical  atmosphere.  A  picturesque,  old  Ger- 
man virtuoso  is  the  reverent  possessor  of  a  genuine  "Cremona."  He 
consents  to  take  for  his  pupil  a  handsome  youth  who  proves  to  have 
an  aptitude  for  technique,  but  not  the  soul  of  an  artist.  The  youth 
has  led  the  happy,  careless  life  of  a  modem,  well-to-do  young  Amer- 
ican and  he  cannot,  with  his  meagre  past,  express  the  love,  the  passion 
and  the  tragedies  of  life  and  all  its  happy  phases  as  can  the  master 
who  has  lived  life  in  all  its  fulness.  But  a  girl  comes  into  his  life— a 
beautiful  bit  of  human  driftwood  that  his  aunt  had  taken  into  her 
heart  and  home,  and  through  his  passionate  love  for  her,  he  leam3 
the  lessons  that  life  has  to  give— and  his  soul  awakes. 

Founded  on  a  fact  that  all  artists  realize. 


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KATE  DOUGLAS  WIGGIN'S 
STORIES   OF  PURE   DELIGHT 

Full   of   originality   and    humor,    kindliness    and  cheer 

THE  OLD  PEABODY  PEW.    Large  Octavo.    Decorative 

text  pages,  printed  in  two  colors.    Illustrations  by  Alice 

Barber  Stephens. 

One  of  the  prettiest  romances  that  has  ever  come  from  this 
author's  pen  is  made  to  bloom  on  Christmas  Eve  in  the  sweet 
freshness  of  an  old  New  England  meeting  house. 

PENELOPE'S  PROGRESS.    Attractive  cover   design  in 
colors. 

Scotland  is  the  background  for  the  merry  doings  of  three  very 
clever  and  original  American  girls.  Their  adventures  in  adjusting 
themselves  to  the  Scot  and  his  land  are  full  of  humor. 

PENELOPE'S  IRISH  EXPERIENCES.  Uniform  in  style 
with  "Penelope's  Progress." 


The  trio  of  clever  girls  who  rambled  over  Scotland  cross  the  bor- 
der to  the  Emerald  Isle,  and  again  they  sharpen  their  wits  against 
new  conditions,  and  revel  in  the  land  of  laughter  and  wit. 

REBECCA  OF  SUNNYBROOK  FARM. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  studies  of  childhood — Rebecca's  artis- 
tic, unusual  and  quaintly  charming  qualities  standout  midst  a  circle 
of  austere  New  Englanders.  The  stage  version  is  making  a  phe- 
nomenal dramatic  record. 

NEW  CHRONICLES  OF  REBECCA.  With  illustrations 
by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

Dme    more   quain 
lugh  various  stag( 

ROSE    O'  THE  RIVER.      With  illustrations  by   George 
Wright. 

The  simple  story  of  Rose,  a  country  girl  and  Stephen  a  sturdy 
young  farmer,  The  girl's  fancy  for  a  city  man  interrupts  their  love 
and  merges  the  story  into  an  emotional  strain  where  the  reader  fol- 
lows the  events  with  rapt  attention. 

Grosset  &  DuNLAP,  526  West  26th  St.  ,  New  York 


Some    more   quaintly  amusing  chronicles  that    carry   Rebecca 
through  various  stages  to  her  eighteenth  birthday. 


CHARMING  BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS 


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WHEN   FATTY   WENT  TO   COLLEGE,    By  Jean  Webster. 

Illustrated  by  C.  D.  Williams. 

One  of  the  best  stories  of  life  in  a  girl's  college  that  has  ever  been 
•written.  It  is  bright,  whimsical  and  entertaining,  lifelike,  laughable 
and  thoroughly  human. 

JUST    PATTY,    By  Jean  Webster. 

Illustrated  by  C.  M.  Relyea. 

Patty  is  full  of  the  joy  of  living,  fun-loving,  given  to  ingenious 
mischief  for  its  own  sake,  with  a  disregard  for  pretty  convention  which 
is  an  unfailing  source  of  joy  to  her  fellows. 

THE   POOR   LITTLE   RICH   GIRL,    By  Eleanor  Gates. 

With  four  full  page  illustrations. 

This  story  relates  the  experience  of  one  of  those  unfortunate  chil- 
dren whose  early  days  are  passed  in  the  companionship  of  a  governess, 
seldom  seeing  either  parent,  and  famishing  for  natural  love  and  tender- 
ness.   A  charming  play  as  dramatized  by  the  author. 

REBECCA   OF  SUNNYBROOK    FARM,       By   Kate   Douglai 

Wiggin. 

\  One  of  the  most  beautiful  studies  of  childhood — Rebecca's  artistic, 
unusual  and  quaintly  charming  qualities  stand  out  midst  a  circle  of 
austere  New  Englanders.  The  stage  version  is  making  a  phenominal 
dramatic  record. 

NEW  CHRONICLES  OF  REBECCA,    By  Kate  Douglas  Wiggia 

Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

Additional  episodes  in  the  girlhood  of  this  delightful  heroine  that 
carry  Rebecca  through  various  stages  to  her  eighteenth  birthday. 

REBECCA  MARY,    By  Annie  Hamilton  Donnell. 

Illustrated  by  Elizabeth  Shippen  Green. 

This  author  possesses  the  rare  gift  of  portraying  all  the  grotesque 
little  joys  and  sorrows  and  scruples  of  this  very  small  girl  with  a  pa» 
thos  that  is  peculiarly  genuine  and  appealing. 

EMMY  LOU:    Her  Book  and  Heart,     By  George  Madden  Martiki. 

Illustrated  by  Charles  Louis  Hinton. 

Emmy  Lou  is  irresistibly  lovable,  because  Fhe  is  so  absolutely  real 
She  is  just  a  bewitchingly  innocent,  hugablc  little  maid.  The  book  u 
'ifonderfully  human. 


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RE-ISSUES  OF  THE  GREAT  UTERARY  SUCCESSES  OF  THE  TIME 
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BEN    HUR.    A  Tale  of  the  Christ.    By  General  Lew  Wallace 

This  famous  Religious-Historical  Romance  with  its  mighty  story, 
brilliant  pageantry,  thrilling  action  and  deep  religious  reverence, 
hardly  requires  an  outhne.  The  whole  world  has  placed  "Bet  -Hur" 
on  a  height  of  pre-eminence  which  no  other  novel  of  its  tine  has 
reached.  The  clashing  of  rivalry  and  the  deepest  human  passions, 
the  perfect  reproduction  of  brilliant  Roman  life,  and  the  tense,  fierce 
atmosphere  of  the  arena  have  kept  their  deep  fascination. 

THE    PRINCE  OF,  INDIA.    By  General  Lew  Wallace 

A  glowing  romance  of  the  Byzantine  Empire,  showing,  with  vivid 
.iTiagination,  the  possible  forces  behind  the  internal  decay  of  the  Em- 
pire that  hastened  the  fall  of  Constantinople. 

The  foreground  figure  is  the  person  known  to  p^'  as  the  Wan- 
dering Jew,  at  this  time  appearing  as  the  Prince  of  India,  with  vast 
stores  of  wealth,  and  is  supposed  to  have  instigated  many  wars-and 
fomented  the  Crusades. 

Mohammed's  love  for  the  Fnncess  Irene  is  beautifully  wrought 
into  the  story,  and  the  book  as  a  whole  is  a  marvelous  work  both 
historically  and  romantically. 

THE    FAIR    GOD.      By  General  Lew  Wallace.      A  Tale  of  the 

Conquest  of  Mexico.    With  Eight  Illustrations  by  Eric  Pape. 

All  the  annals  of  conquest  have  nothing  more  brilliantly  daring 
and  dramatic  than  the  drama  played  in  Mexico  by  Cortes.  _  As  a 
dazzling  picture  of  Mexico  and  the  Montezumas  it  leaves  nothing  to 
be  desired. 

The  artist  has  caught  with  rare  enthusiasm  the  spirit  of  the 
Spanish  conquerors  of  Mexico,  its  beauty  and  glory  and  romance. 

TARRY    THOU    TILL    I    COME    or,  Salathiel,  the  Wandering 

Jew.  By  George  Croly.  With  twenty  illustrations  by  T.  de  Thulstrup 

A  historical  novel,  dealing  with  the  momentous  events  that  oc- 
curred, chiefly  in  Palestine,  from  the  time  of  the  Crucifixion  to  the 
destruction  of  Jerusalem, 

The  book,  as  a  story,  is  rep'iete  with  Oriental  charm  and  richness, 
and  thecharacter  drawing  is  marvelous.  No  other  novel  ever  written 
has  portrayed  with  such  vividness  the  events  that  convulsed  Rome 
and  destroyed  Jerusalem  in  the  early  days  of  Christanity. 


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NOVELS   OF   SOUTHERN   LIFE 

By  THOMAS  DIXON,  JR. 

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THE   LEOPARD'S   SPOTS:        A    Story    of    the    White    Man's 

Burden,  1865-1900.    With  illustrations  by  C.  D.  Williams. 

A  tale  of  the  South  about  the  dramatic  events  of  Destruction. 
Reconstruclion  and  Upbuilding.  The  work  is  able  and  eloquent  and 
the  verifiable  events  of  history  are  tollowed  closely  in  the  develop- 
ment of  a  story  full  of  struggle. 

THE   CLANSMAN.    With  illustrations  by  Arthur  I.  Keller. 

While  not  connected  with  it  in  any  way,  this  is  a  companion  vol- 
ume to  the  author's  "epoch-mak'm<^"  story  TAe  Leopard's  Spots.  It 
is  a  novel  with  a  great  deal  to  it,  anu  which  very  properly  is  going  to 
interest  many  thousands  of  readers.  *  *  *  It  is,  first  of  all,  a  forceful, 
dramatic,  absorbing  love  story,  with  a  sequence  of  events  so  surprising 
that  one  is  prepared  for  the  fact  that  much  of  it  is  founded  on  actual 
happenings;  but  Mr.  Dixon  has,  as  before,  a  deeper  purpose — he  has 
aimed  to  show  that  the  original  formers  of  the  Ku  Klux  Klan  were 
modern  knights  errant  taking  the  only  means  at  hand  to  right 
intolerable  wrongs. 

THE    TRAITOR.    A  Story  of  the  Fall  of  the  Invisible  Empire. 

Illustrations  by  C.  D.  Williams. 

The  third  and  last  book  in  this  remarkable  trilogy  of  novels  relat- 
ing to  Southern  Reconstruction.  It  is  a  thrilling  story  of  love,  ad- 
venture, treason,  and  the  United  States  Secret  Service  dealing  with 
the  decline  and  fall  of  the  Ku  Klux  Klan. 

COMRADES.    Illustrations  by  C.  D.  Williams, 

A  novel  dealing  with  the  establishment  of  a  Socialistic  Colony 
upon  a  deserted  island  off  the  coast  of  California.  The  way  of  dis- 
illusionment is  the  course  over  which  Mr.  Dixon  conducts  the  reader. 

THE   ONE   WOMAN.    A  Story  of  Modern  Utopia. 

A  love  story  and  character  study  of  three  strong  men  and  two  fas- 
cinating women.  In  swift,  unified,  and  dramatic  action,  we  see  So- 
cialism a  deadly  torce,  in  the  hour  of  the  eclipse  of  Faith,  destroying 
t.ne  home  life  and  weakening  the  fiber  of  Anglo  Saxon  manhood. 


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THE  NOVELS  OF 

STEWART    EDWARD  WHITE 

THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME.  Dlustrated  by  Lajaren  A.  Killer 

The  romance  of  the  son  of  "The  Riverman."  The  young  college 
hero  goes  into  the  lumber  camp,  is  antagonized  by  "graft"  and  comes 
into  the  romance  of  his  life. 
ARIZONA  NIGHTS.  Illus,  and  cover  inlay  by  N.  C.  Wyeth. 

A  series  of  spirited  tales  emphasizing  some  phases  of  the  life 
of  the  ranch,  plains  and  desert.    A  masterpiece. 
THE  BLAZED    TRAIL.  With  illustrations  by  Thomas  Fogarty, 

A  wholesome  story  with  gleams  of  humor,  telling  of  a  young 
man  who  blazed  his  way  to  fortune  through  the  heart  of  the  Mich- 
igan pines. 

THE  CLAIM  JUMPERS.    A  Romance. 

The  tenderfoot  manager  of  a  mine  in  a  lonesome  gulch  of  the 
Black  Hills  has  a  hard  time  of  it,  but  "wins  out"  in  more  ways  than 
one. 

CONJUROR'S     HOUSE.    Illustrated  Theatrical  Edition- 
Dramatized  under   the     title   of  "The    Call  of    the   North." 
"Conjuror's  House  is  a  Hudson  Bay  trading  post  where  the 
head  factor  is  the  absolute  lord.    A  young  fellow  risked  his  life  and 
won  a  bride  on  this  forbidden  land. 

THE  MAGIC   FOREST.    A  Modern  Fairy  Tale.    Illustrated. 

The  sympathetic  way  in  which  the  children  of  the  wild  and 
their  life  is  treated  could  only  belong  to  one  who  is  in  love  with  the 
forest  and  open  air.    Based  on  fact. 

THE  RIVERMAN.    Illus.  by  N.  C.  Wyeth  and  C.  Underwood. 
The  story  of  a  man's  fight  against  a  river  and  of  a  struggle 
between  honesty  and  grit  on  the  one  side,  and  dishonesty  and 
shrewdness  on  the  other. 

TPIE  SILENT  PLACES.  lUustrations  by  Philip  R.  Goodwin. 

The  wonders  of  the  northern  forests,  the  heights  of  feminine 
devotion,  and  masculine  power,  the  intelligence  of  the  Caucasian 
and  the  instinct  of  the  Indian,  are  all  finely  drawn  in  this  story. 
THE  WESTERNERS. 

A  story  of  the  Black  Hills  that  is  justly  placed  among  the 
best  American  novels.  It  portrays  the  life  of  the  new  West  as  no 
other  book  has  done  in  recent  years. 

THE    MYSTERY.  In  collaboration  with  Samuel  Hopkins  Adams 

With  illustrations  by  Will  Crawford. 

The  disappearance  of  three  successive  crews  from  the  stout 
ship  "Laughing  Lass"  in  mid-Pacific,  is  a  mystery  weird  and  inscrut- 
able. In  the  solution,  there  is  a  story  of  the  most  exciting  voyage 
that  man  ever  undertook. 


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H  —  I    ■■  I  -.1  I      I  ..I  II  I-  —   .      ■■  I  ■...■■■  I.I  ■  -  I     -    "■'■t^ 

THE  SILENT  CALL.    By    Edwin    Milton    Royle.      Illustrated 

with  scenes  from  the  play. 

The  hero  of  this  story  is  the  Squaw  Man's  son.  He  has 
been  taken  to  England,  but  spurns  conventional  life  for  the  sake 
of  the  untamed  West  and  a  girl's  pretty  face. 

JOHN  MARCH,    SOUTHERNER.    By  George  W.  Cable. 

A  story  of  the  pretty  women  and  spirited  men  of  the  South. 
As  fragrant  m  sentiment  as  a  sprig  of  magnolia,  and  as  full  of 
mystery  and  racial  troubles  as  any  romance  of  "after  the  war" 
days. 

MR.  JUSTICE  RAFFLES.    By  E.  W.  Hornung. 

This  engaging  rascal  is  found  helping  a  young  cricket  player 
out  of  the  toils  of  a  money  shark.  Novel  in  plot,  thrilling  and 
amusing. 

FORTY  MINUTES  LATE.  By  F.  Hopkinson  Smith.  Illustrated 

by  S.  M.  Chase. 

Delightfully  human  stories  of  every  day  happenings;  of  a 
lecturer's  laughable  experience  because  he's  late,  a  young  woman's 
excursion  into  the  stock  market,  etc. 

OLD  LADY  NUMBER  31.    By  Louise  Forsslund. 

A  heart-warming  story  of  American  rural  life,  telling  of  the 
adventures  of  an  old  couple  in  an  old  folk's  home,  their  sunny, 
philosophical  acceptance  of  misfortune  and  ultimate  prosperity. 

THE  HUSBAND'S  STORY.    By  David  Graham  Phillips. 

A  story  that  has  given  all  Europe  .as  well  as  all  America  much 
food  for  thought.  A  young  couple  begin  life  in  humble  circum- 
stances and  rise  in  worldly  matters  until  the  husband  is  enormously 
rich— the  wife  in  the  most  aristocratic  European  society— but  at  the 
price  of  their  happiness. 

THE  TRAIL  OF  NINETY- EIGHT.      By  Robert  W.  Service. 

Illustrated  by  Maynard  Dixon. 

One  of  the  best  stories  of  "Vagabondia"  ever  written,  and 
one  of  the  most  accurate  and  picturesque  descriptions  of  the  stam- 
pede of  gold  seekers  to  the  Yukon.  The  love  story  embedded  in 
the  narrative  is  strikingly  original. 

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JOHN  FOX,  JR'S. 

STORIES   OF  THE   KENTUCKY  MOUNTAINS 

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THE  TRAIL   OF   THE    LONESOME   PINE. 

Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 


The  "lonesome  pine"  from  which  the 
story  takes  its  name  was  a  tall  tree  that 
stood  in  solitary  splendor  on  a  mountain 
top.  The  fame  of  the  pine  lured  a  young 
engineer  through  Kentucky  to  catch  the 
trail,  and  when  he  finally  climbed  to  its 
shelter  he  found  not  only  the  pine  but  the 
foot-prints  of  a  girl.  And  the  girl  proved 
to  be  lovely,  piquant,  and  the  trail  of 
these  girlish  foot-prints  led  the  young 
engineer  a  madder  chase  than  "the  trail 
of  the  lonesome  pine." 

SHEPHERD    OF    KINGDOM     COME 


THE     LITTLE 


Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

This  is  a  story  of  Kentucky,  in  a  settlement  known  as  "King- 
dom Come."  It  is  a  life  rude,  semi-barbarous;  but  natural 
and  honest,  from  which  often  springs  the  flower  of  civilization. 

"  Chad."  the  "little  shepherd"  did  not  know  who  he  was  nor 
whence  he  came — he  had  just  wandered  from  door  to  door  since 
early  childhood,  seeking  shelter  with  kindly  mountaineers  who 
gladly  fathered  and  mothered  this  waif  about  whom  there  was 
such  a  mystery — a  charming  waif,  by  the  way,  who  could  play 
the  banjo  better  that  anyone  else  in  the  mountains. 

A  KNIGHT   OF  THE    CUMBERLAND, 

Illustrated    by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

The  scenes  are  laid  along  the  waters  of  the  Cumberland' 
the  lair  of  moonshiner  and  feudsman.  The  knight  is  a  moon- 
shiner's son,  and  the  heroine  a  beautiful  girl  perversely  chris- 
tened "The  Blight."  Two  impetuous  young  Southerners'  fall 
under  the  spell  of  "The  Blight's  "  charms  and  she  learns  what 
a  large  part  jealousy  and  pistols  have  in  the  love  making  of  the 
mountaineers. 

Included  in  this  volume  is  "Hell  fer-Sartain"  and  other 
stories,  some  of  Mr.  Fox's  most  entertaining  Cumberland  valley 
narratives. 


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B.  M.  Bower's  Novels 

Thrilling  Western  Romances 

Large  12  mos.  Handsomely  bound  in  cloth.      Illustrated 

CHIP.  OF  THE  FLYING  U 

A  breezy  wholesome  tale,  wherein  the  love  affairs  of  Chip  and 
Delia  Whitman  are  charmingly  and  humorously  told.  Chip's 
jealousy  of  Dr.  Cecil  Grantham,  who  turns  out  to  be  a  big.  blue 
eyed  young  woman  is  very  amusing.  A  clever,  realistic  story  of 
the  American  Cow-puncher. 

THE  HAPPY  FAMILY 

A  lively  and  amusing  story,  dealing  with  the  adventures  of 
eighteen  jovial,  big  hearted  Montana  cowboys.  Foremost  amongst 
them,  we  tind  Ananias  Green,  known  as  Andy,  whose  imaginative 
powers  cause  many  lively  and  exciting  adventures, 

HER   PRAIRIE  KNIGHT 

A  realistic  story  of  the  plains,  describing  a  gay  party  of  Eas- 
terners who  exchange  a  cottage  at  Newport  for  the  rough  homeli- 
ness of  a  Montana  ranch-house.  The  merry-hearted  cowboys,  the 
fascinating  Beatrice,  and  the  effusive  Sir  Redmond,  become  living, 
breathing  personalities. 

THE  RANGE  DWELLERS  

Here  are  everyday,  genuine  cowboys,  just  as  they  really  exist. 
Spirited  action,  a  range  feud  between  two  families,  and  a  Romeo 
and  Juliet  courtship  make  this  a  bright,  jolly,  entertaining  story, 
without  a  dull  page. 

THE    LURE  OF  DIM  TRAILS 

A  vivid  portrayal  of  the  experience  of  an  Eastern  author, 
among  the  cowboys  of  the  West,  in  search  of  "local  color"  for  a 
new  novel.  "Bud"  Thurston  learns  many  a  lesson  while  following 
"the  lure  of  the  dim  trails"  but  the  hardest,  and  probably  the  most 
welcome,  is  that  of  love. 

THE    LONESOME   TRAIL 

"Weary"  Davidson  leaves  the  ranch  for  Portland,  where  con- 
ventional city  life  palls  on  him.  A  little  branch  of  sage  brush, 
pungent  with  the  atmosphere  of  the  prairie,  and  the  recollection  of 
a  pair  of  large  brown  eyes  soon  compel  his  return.  A  wholesome 
love  story, 

THE  LONG  SHADOW 

A  vigorous  Western  story,  sparkling  with*  the  free,  outdoor, 
life  of  a  mountain  ranch.  Its  scenes  shift  rapidly  and  its  actors  play 
the  game  of  life  fearlessly  and  like  men.  It  is  a  fine  love  story  from 
start  to  finish. 

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